Scales
by Bellweather07
Summary: Steve weighs 98 pounds. A story in which Steve ends up in a boarding school designed to counteract severe eating disorders. There is one problem though; he has no eating disorder. He's just trapped in a forever-small body. And he can't escape. His only options are to either submit to the oppressions of his superiors by yielding up his freedom...or to die.
1. Steve Weighs 98 Pounds

**This story has also been posted on A03, under my own account with the same username**

* * *

Steve weighs 98 pounds.

Acknowledging this struggle is something he's had to confront time and time again.

The art school he applied to turned him down because they thought he had food allergies that the cafeteria couldn't accommodate for. They didn't even ask him. They just assumed; they turned him down in an instant.

He had spent years trying to get into that art school.

When he was turned down from art school, he tried out for the army. He passed the intellect and weaponry tests with flying colors. In fact, he was the youngest person to have ever made a perfect score in both areas. The administration had been baffled, and proud. They were stunned. Steve had thought he made it in for sure.

But he failed the physical. The testers thought he was disabled. The administration carried–actually carried– him in their arms down the front stairs of the army base because they feared he was too weak to walk down in his own. They turned him down.

But it wasn't like Steve couldn't provide for himself. He could. Steve held a job at an automobile repair shop, as a way to financially support himself and his mother before he leaves for college.

That is, if he ever does leave for college. There were only two months left of high school, and he would have to leave soon. But his post-high school choices turned him down, both art school and the army. He had no other options. He was running out of hope.

And it was all because he was too small.

Steve's weight affected his social life too. He could barely function at his job. He was the perfect size to get beneath cars to tweak on their parts from underneath, sure. That got him extra tips, which was good. However, most of the time he was too small to pick up tools. He couldn't even change a flat tire without feeling dizzy and getting vertigo.

The only reason he was hired was because his boss was also his best friend, Bucky.

Bucky was only two years older than Steve, but he was a good head taller than him in height and more than double Steve's weight. The muscles along his hairy arms were as thick as Steve's nimble thighs. (Steve knows, because they've measured this.) The difference in their proportions was so immense that Bucky could hold Steve over his head like a dumbbell without breaking a sweat. (Again, they've tested this.)

To think that they were the same size back in grade school was ludicrous. But it was true.

It's not like Steve hasn't tried methods to counteract his struggle with his size, because he has. He's tried everything he could.

For one thing, he currently eats twice as much as he used to eat, wolfing down four heavyset meals a day composed of high protein and fatty meats. He often finds himself eating until he's bloated and feels like throwing up. A few times, he actually has. But as Steve's portions grow larger and fattier, his wealth shrinks punier and poorer. He and his mother have been on the lower end of the income-scale for as long as Steve can remember; and his constant binging of their food supply is doing their already insignificant bank account no good.

He once heard his mother secretly crying to herself late at night. He wanted to approach her, to comfort her, but then he saw what she held in her shaking hands. She was crying over his grocery bill. He slipped back into the bedroom and locked the door. He hid under blanket sheets and ate marshmallow cereal from the box until it was empty.

In another effort to put on weight, Steve tried working out. A few times a week, he tags along with Bucky and his friends and heads to the local gym.

Bucky and the other boys can lift twice as much as Steve can. Hell, even the girls lift more than him. And everyone outruns him on the treadmills; Steve finds that he can't run for five minutes straight before feeling woozy.

Once Steve tried going to the gym on his own, without the others to distract him and make him feel worse about himself. But he didn't go far. He had only made it to the front desk when the receptionist asked him, "Are you here for the middle school swim tryouts?"

He doesn't go anywhere on his own anymore. Not the gym, not the grocery store, work, bus stops, or anywhere really. He was a small man in a big world, a world too big for him. Fuck it, he was barely a man to begin with. He had the body of a child.

So it didn't come as a surprise to him when one day at school, he was called into the counselor's office.

Nick Fury was a heavyset man with dark skin and an even darker gaze. He has such a sharp gaze, he could cut through steel with just his one eye (the other was secured behind an eye patch.) Steve was very surprised the man was able to get a job as a high school counselor, since nothing about him was comforting at all.

"Sit down, Mr. Rogers," Fury ordered without raising his gaze from the computer screen on his desk.

Steve obeyed, gulping slightly at the sharp tone of the man's voice. But he did as he was told, sitting down on the chair and folding his tiny hands together in his lap.

"Am I in trouble?" Steve asked.

"No, Rogers," Fury said. He eased away from the computer and rested his hands under his chin as he looked Steve in the eye, expression fierce and blank as ever, "How's life at home, son?"

Don't call me 'son' is what Steve wanted to say.

"Fine," he answered.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Financially?"

"Pardon?" Steve retorted, though he understood quite well what the counselor was asking.

"I mean, what is your mother's job?"

"She's a kindergarten teacher. I have a job too, auto repair."

"That's what I feared," Fury sighed. He went back to the computer, typed in some things and then signed a paper on his desk. He handed Steve a pen and tapped the bottom of the same paper, "Sign here please."

"What is it?"

"I gave you a direction."

"Sir, with all due respect–"

"-Sign the paper, Rogers."

Steve bit the inside of his cheek, becoming tense, "Dr. Fury, my mama taught me to not sign anything without reading it first. A bad decision like that could lose everything."

"Well, your mama's a wonderful woman, I know her well, you know. But if you look here," he pointed to another paragraph on the form, "she's already signed."

Steve's eyes widened, "What?"

He grabbed the paper with both hands and scanned the text, desperately, trying to find out what the form was to begin with. His mother would never sign anything without his consent. She would never do anything behind his back. So this form–what the hell was it?

Steve felt his stomach roll over inside his gut when he read the title: Scholarship Admission Consensus.

"A scholarship?" Steve repeated, heart beginning to flutter quickly with excitement, "I made it into college after all?"

"Rogers–"

Steve stood up from the chair so quickly that it topped over behind him. He held the paper in his hands like a trophy, high above his head. He could feel the excitement coursing through his veins, quickly, instantly, "Oh. Oh my god, Dr. Fury, thank you, thank you so much. You-You don't know how much this means to me. This is such a good opportunity, I–"

"Rogers–"

"No, I mean it, Dr. Fury, this is good for me. I promise I'll do my best, I won't let you down–"

"Steve, you're not listening to me–"

"I'll do my best, I promise–"

"Rogers. You did not make it to college!"

And thus the adrenaline rushing through Steve's body slowed and the dopamine stopped working its magic. He lowered his hands with the paper, "Hm?"

"That's not a scholarship for college, it's for another school."

"Another..." Steve panted, "Another school?

"A private school. One that can help you with your condition."

"...my condition?"

The counseling director went on, "Your mother couldn't afford admission, so she contacted us."

Steve looked back to the paper. That's when he saw what school he was being enrolled into: The Institute for Premature Sufferers of Eating Disorders.

Steve didn't say anything.

But Fury has quite the script to say, "It's a good school, Steve. It's right for you. You'll be surrounded by students who are going through the same thing that you are. It would be so much better for you there."

He waited for Steve to respond; he didn't.

"It's a boarding school. You'll be staying there for the next two months, until school ends. It's also a recovery centre. There will be doctors and staff there who will be able to treat you while you learn."

Dr. Fury waited.

Steve spoke, "You convinced mama to send me?"

"Actually, it was your mother's idea."

…

"Rogers?"

…

"Steve?"

"May I please be excused?"

The intensity in Dr. Fury's gaze diminished. He appeared softer, naturally, like he was pitying Steve. He eased back in his seat, "Uh, yes. Yes, of course. Do you, uh, do you need a hall pass?"

"No, I'm okay," Steve said as he rose from the chair and left the office without looking back. Really, he was. He was okay. Why didn't anyone see that?


	2. In the Dead of Night

_Tap tap tap._

"Bucky…"

_Tap tap tap._

"Bucky…"

_Tap tap tap._

"Bucky, c'mon, it's late. I'm cold."

_Tap tap tap._

"Bucky, I swear to God if you don't open your door in the next minute, I'm going to–"

The worn, silver doorknob to the brick apartment turned with a click. The door sighed as it opened, revealing a cluttered, dimly lit room behind it. Bucky, disheveled and deprived of sleep, stood there at the door, confused to see his friend wavering at his doorstep in the chill of the night.

"Steve, what're you–"

"–Bucky, can I stay the night?"

If Bucky had any questions, he didn't ask them. He simply stood aside in the doorway to let Steve pass through.

Steve has spent the night here enough times to know his way around. It wasn't that Steve was a disobedient runaway child. Sometimes Steve spends the night with Bucky just for the sake of spending time with him. Other times, after a long day of work, he's usually exhausted and overworked, so some days, Bucky simply takes Steve home with him because it's just easier for the both of them.

So both Steve and Bucky were comfortable with him just walking in and making himself at home. He took off his shoes and socks in the doorway and then climbed onto the sofa. He didn't bother readjusting the pillows.

But what _wasn't _comfortable was the silence. Bucky stood in the same spot, just observing his younger friend's peculiar behavior.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, arms crossed.

"About what?" Steve asked.

"Oh I don't know," Bucky mumbled in his usual grumbly voice. He popped open the kitchen refrigerator and took out a beer for himself and a soda for Steve. He took a sip from his bottle, and then turned back to his friend, "maybe the fact you showed up at my door at two in the morning without calling."

Steve shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

"What, didja party all night long?" Bucky attempted at a little comedy as he handed Steve his soda.

Steve shrugged.

Bucky grumbled a little. He took a seat on the sofa next to Steve, "Your mama called me," he stated in his thick Brooklyn accent.

"Oh?" Steve asked, sipping from his soda.

"She was really worried about ya. Said you didn't come home or call her or anything."

Steve shrugged.

"Damn it Stevie, what happened to you?"

Steve set down his soda on the nearby table stand. He was grimacing, reeking of distress. Unlike Bucky, who looked sleep enough to pass out cold right then and there, Steve was awake and attentive, albeit quite angered.

"Do you know what mama did?"

Bucky waited for Steve to go on.

"She's sending me to a eating disorder treatment school."

Bucky did a double take, "She's _what?"_

"She didn't even tell me," he took a sip of soda, "Hell, she didn't even _talk _to me. She _always_ used to talk to me."

"You don't, do you?"

"I don't what?"

"You don't have an eating disorder?"

Steve snapped his head to the side, staring Bucky in the eye. He inhaled through his nose, "Tell me you didn't just ask me that."

"Hey now," Bucky eased, putting his hands up defensively, "Stevie. I know you better than anyone. I trust you and all, but you have to admit that you have some pretty bad food anxiety."

"What do you mean?"

Bucky didn't say anything. Instead, he indicated the bottle of soda in Steve's hand. It was completely empty. It had been full only a moment ago.

Steve flushed.

He composed himself, "This? This is nothing. This is just…"

He tried to conjure up something to say, but found that he had no idea what he was trying to say. His mouth was wide open, and went dry.

Bucky stared on unconvinced, almost nervously.

Steve decided on saying, "Buck, I'm okay. You know I would tell you if something was up, right?"

He went to the fridge to fetch another soda, "That's why I came to you in the first place," he took it back to his place on the sofa with him and sat down beside his friend, "I trust you. You know that."

"I do know that," Bucky admitted, "That's why I think you should at least give this place a shot."

Steve's eyes widened, "You're serious."

"I am," the Brooklynese admitted, grey eyes softening.

"Why?"

"Well, what's the worst thing that can happen?"

…

…

…

"Steve, you okay?"

"I can't open the soda bottle."

"Oh… here, let me help."

"I can't do it."

"It's okay, it's no big deal."

"My hands are too little. They can't get a grip."

"Hey, like I said, it's no big deal. Look, I already got it open for ya."

"And what would I do without you, Bucky?" Steve asked, a sharp bite in his tone, "If I went to that school I wouldn't have you to help me out, which we both know I apparently need very much."

"Well…" Bucky eased. He set his beer down on the nightstand in front of him, shifting his position on the couch. He rubbed his hand over his face in thought as he conjured up something to respond, "Think about it, Stevie. How is that any different from now? We only see each other in weekends anyway, since you still go to school. You ain't got any friends your age; they all older, like me. So you wouldn't be missin' much, you know."

With his free hand, Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

"Geez, I don't know…" he said uncomfortably. Bucky did make a valid point. Steve hadn't even considered that.

"At least you have a choice on the matter, right? So that's good," Bucky stated, returning to his beer bottle for a sip.

Steve went pale, "Shit."

"What, what's wrong?"

"I don't."

"What?"

"I don't have a choice. The scholarship already went through."

…

"Mama's probably packing up my things right now."

…

…

…

"Well, _say something."_

"I'm real sorry, Stevie."

"...Yeah. Thanks, Buck."

Gingerly, slowly, as if by some gentle wave of pacificity, the elder wrapped his arm around the younger's shoulders, squeezing tightly and pulling him close. Steve returned the gesture half-heartedly by lightly patting Bucky's hand. They held each other like that for a while, just absorbing each other in unforced silence. _God, _Steve missed having Bucky around. He missed him a lot already, how the hell was he supposed to feel when he's in the school, with Bucky being far, _far,_ away?

A good two or three minutes of bonding passed before Bucky broke the silence.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked, genuine concern evident in his tone.

Steve pulled back out of the embrace, "You know me, I'm a fighter," he said, taking a sip from his soda bottle, "This won't stop me from anything."

"Yeah, I _know _you're a fighter," Bucky muttered, a smirk forming on his face, "That's why I'm asking if you're gonna be okay. You always lose, you lil' punk."

"Damn you," Steve replied, smirking just as openly. He gave his friend a last parting hug and hopped up from the sofa, "Well, I'm off."

"Keep in touch, okay?" Bucky called as Steve headed for the front door.

"I'll call you every day," he decided, "And I'll come over on weekends, just like normal."

"Just like normal."

"See you, Buck."

"Good luck, Stevie."


	3. People Die Here

Steve was never the best liar, but he was always still determined to convince a false truth. Upon arriving at the school, he pretended to be mute. And deaf. And blind. And dead, for that matter.

Certainly, no one believed him. Steve knew that. Anyone could see he was pretending. But for whatever reason, the teachers and counselors and administrators just let him behave as he did. They let him stay to himself.

So within the first two hours upon arriving at the school, a few adults gave him paperwork to sign, some upperclassmen helped Steve find his dorm, and then they let him be. No words were needed. And Steve was grateful for that.

It wasn't like he was shy. In fact, Steve was _very _accustomed to speaking his mind. Steve was just feeling rebellious. Like he wanted to buck the system. It didn't occur to Steve that his acts of revel went unrecognized, he just wanted to disrespect all he could. He was already determined to put down all the people who put him down. Starting with–

The doorknob to his dorm clicked.

Steve threw himself under the covers of his bed, pulling the pillow over his face. They couldn't drag him to class if he was asleep, right?

"Woah! There's a body in my room!" someone exclaimed.

Steve froze for a minute before pulling the covers away from his face. He saw that there was another person in the dorm room with him, a student. The kid appeared to be his age, perhaps older by a few years. He was dressed elaborately, with a lavish designer t-shirt and expensive cropped grey jeans. With both his appearance and the confident smirk he wore on his face, the guy looked like he walked fresh off of a movie set as the leading role.

"Well," he said, still smirking, "Are you gonna say hi or just sit there staring at me?"

Steve opened his mouth to snap back–But the other kid in the room beat him to it: "I mean, I'm fine either way, don't get me wrong, I like the attention."

He stuck out his fist as a welcoming gesture, "Hi, I'm Tony. What're you in for?"

Something clicked inside of Steve. This kid–Tony, his name was– was in the same boat as Steve. He was being held here too, most likely against his will, also like Steve. They were on the same side.

So Steve decided to hold his tongue.

He returned the fist bump, "My name is Steve Rogers. They, uh, they think I have anorexia or something. I think. They never really spoke to me about it."

"No way," Tony said. Without permission, he went ahead and jumped on Steve's bed, right beside him. He bounced there on the cushions before settling down and keeping up his excited conversation, "Me too! Not anorexia though. I mean, have you seen these flabs?"

He jiggled the underside of his arms, making a silly face the whole time. Steve couldn't help but smile.

Tony smiled back. He set his arms down, "In all seriousness, though, they think I'm bulimic when I don't. I just have a hell of a great time at parties, usually eat too much, and I throw up all over the floor when I get home. My mama didn't even _ask _me. See, she thinks I'm too precious or something to be...what was the word she used…_sensitive_ to have a sit-down and talk out what's wrong with me, so she just went ahead and _assumed_ without even consulting me! I've been here four months now and no one even notices!"

Steve had been in a good mood as Tony told his story, it was something relatable. _Really _relatable. But then he said that last sentence…

"Four months?" Steve repeated, "You've been here for _four_ months?"

"Yup. It's a blast. I'm making a lot of friends," he took a swig from a bottle, "Want some?"

"Yes," Steve said. He took a sip.

"So what about you?"

"Hm?" Steve mumbled, lips sealed behind the beak of the bottle.

"How long are you supposed to be here for?"

"Two months."

Tony rolled his eyes, "No _really, _how long?"

"Really. Two months."

Tony blew out a wisp of air, "Well they must've been lying to you or something. Nobody gets out of this hell hole in two months. The only way anyone can–_Hey!_ Slow down on the beverages there, pal! You're gonna die by drowning!"

Steve finished the bottle with the bottom up. It was only then that he took a moment to realize what he was actually ingesting. He scowled, "That was just water."

"Of course it was, idiot! What did you think it was?" Tony shouted, irritated. He snatched back the empty bottle in frustration.

"I thought it was soda or something."

"No dude, only water is allowed in dorms," he mumbled, still _clearly _annoyed, "Hey, did you really not know what you were drinking until you were done with it?"

"Never mind that," Steve stated, shaking his head. He pulled his legs into his chest and hugged them. He was eagerly gazing at Tony, "You were saying there was one way that people can get out of here in two months. What is it?"

Tony flushed. He rubbed the back of his head and rose from Steve's tiny little bed. He returned to his own side of the room and shuffled through his backpack, "Uh," he said, distractedly, "forget about it."

"No, I'm serious."

"...You die."

"...People die here?"

"All the time. Why do you think I didn't have a roommate before you got here?"

Something flipped over inside Steve's stomach. He laid back down on his bed with his back against the covers and his front facing the ceiling. He kept himself awake all night, pondering if there could possibly be another way to escape what he knows he can't.


	4. The First Feast

Steve grew up on the lower end of the income scale. He wasn't in poverty, at least not in his own opinion. But he and his mother had nevertheless been struggling to make ends meet for their entire lives. Because of that, the only schooling he had been exposed to were public schools in the worst neighborhoods around.

So one could imagine his shock when he was given his daily schedule for life in his new private school, his new private hell.

The schedule read as follows:

•6:30 Wake up time

•7:00-8:00 Breakfast [Mandatory]

•8:30-11:30 Private Seminar (Mon-Wed)

•8:30-11:30 Group Seminar (Thurs-Sat)

•12:00-13:00 Lunch [Mandatory]

•13:30-15:30 Health Class

•16:00-18:00 Physical Education

•18:30-20:00 Dinner [Mandatory]

•22:00 Hall Curfew

•22:30 Room Curfew

•23:00 Lights Out

Steve found it laughable that it wasn't the classes, but the _meals _that were "mandatory." So, hypothetically speaking, he could cut class all day and get three free meals out of it.

He was scouring over the schedule, curled up on his mattress, when his roommate approached him.

"Hey Steve," Tony said, assembling his books and whatnot into his backpack, "So, like, whenever we get a new kid or whatever, they still have to attend the meals. Notice how in bright bold print it says–" he put his hands up dramatically, "–_mandatory!"_

"I see that. But I got here at 5:30."

"Right," Tony said, "So you can still attend dinner. It's in fifteen minutes."

Steve watched from his bed as Tony finished packing his things. He threw his designer backpack over one shoulder and ran a few fingers through his hair, gazing with charm into the mirror. It wasn't until he found himself presentable that he cast Steve a glance over his shoulder, "You can sit with me and my buddies if you want."

Steve felt something heavy in his chest. He _loathed_ eating in front of people. If anyone were to see his disgustingly unhealthy diet, or perhaps his grossly tremendous portion sizes, they would freak out. Steve has seen it before. Sometimes they laugh at him, or maybe criticize and chastise him. A lot of the time they pity him and try to counsel him, as if he's doing something wrong.

He has been eating in secret for years now. He can't even remember the last time he ate with friends or his mother. Hiding his obsession has become integrated to his entire lifestyle. He couldn't–couldn't _possibly_– even consider eating with–

"I mean, if you _want to_," Tony muttered, stealing a pitying glance at Steve in the mirror.

Steve's fists were balled tight. He avoided eye contact as he conjured up something to say, "I, uh, I have a call to make. I can't."

Tony just shrugged and went back to fixing his hair, "I get it."

They shared a silence for a few moments before a thought popped into Steve's head.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"They're not gonna control what you eat or something, right?"

Tony shook his head, "Not for the first week. The first week, you eat however you want."

The weights on Steve's shoulders lightened a bit. But only a bit; the pressure still remained.

Tony started to head out the door when he stopped to say, "Oh by the way, I get you wanna eat how you usually eat, but I really do recommend bulking up on protein a bit more. I mean, you're skinnier than Cher!"

And with that, he left. Steve was left to hate himself in solitude.

* * *

He wasn't fibbing about making a call. Steve had promised to call Bucky every day, didn't he? It occurred to Steve, as he was typing in the phone number on his mobile cell phone, that he could use the fact that he's supposed to call Bucky every day as an excuse to always sit alone at meal times. Something about that plan gave him pride, like he was finally rebelling like the way he wanted.

So Steve sat down in the outdoor courtyard, a designated eating area, with his three plates of dinner, and called Bucky.

He only had to wait for one ring before Bucky picked up. That brought a smile to Steve's lips, knowing how anxious his best friend was to pick up the phone.

"_Steve! I took today off early so I could talk to you."_

Steve rolled his eyes, softly smiling, "Well, Bucky, you _do _own the mechanics shop. You could probably get off early whenever you feel like it."

"_Yeah, I know. But still."_

There was a beat.

"_So how's the school?"_

"Well," Steve sighed, "I have no freedom, no rights, stupid mental health classes, and a jerkoff of a roommate."

"_You're exaggerating."_

"Only a little bit. Oh yeah, and apparently people die here."

"_Wait, hold on–"_

"–But the campus is nice. And the food smells good, I didn't start to eat yet but–"

"–_Steve, did you say people _die _there?"_

Steve shrugged. Then he realized that he was still only on a phone call.

"I guess so. I literally sleep in the bed of a kid who passed away a while ago."

"_Nasty."_

"I know right?"

"_Creepy too. Doya_ _know what happened to him?"_

"I don't know. I guess he was too far gone in whatever eating disorder he had."

"_Not like you, though, right?"_

…

"_I mean, you're okay, right?"_

"Of course I'm okay. I told you that before."

"_Okay."_

"Okay."

…

…

…

"I think I'm going to eat my meal now."

"_...Oh. Yeah. Please do. Go ahead."_

"K. Bye, Bucky."

"_Take care, Steve."_

Steve was the first to hang up. He kept his phone nearby, in case he needed to defend his eating alone. But now, he decided, it was time to eat.

On the first plate he had four slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza, two sausage rolls, and three garlic knots. On the second plate he had sirloin, two large butter rolls, two chicken breasts, and a heaping wad of mashed potatoes. And on his final plate, his dessert plate, he had three slices of pie with ice cream on top, two full chocolate bars, half a chocolate cake, and a bag of sour candy.

It took him twenty one minutes to clear it. All of it.

Steve threw up everything in the toilet later that night. He was once again left to hate himself.


	5. Lucid Dreams (Not Quite)

It's such a tragedy to wake up to blaring alarms so early in the morning…

Oh, the taste of that cake…

Steve had been sleeping fitfully, having a well deserved night of sleep.

There was a school alarm clock on the center desk that he shared with Tony. The food from last night… Tony was still asleep. The alarm was still going off. It was 6:30 in the morning. What cake?

Steve ran fingers over his face. He was completely out of it; and he knew it.

The screaming of the alarm. The shaking of the clock against the wooden desk. The custard on top of the cake from his dream; he had been dreaming.

Steve slammed a fist down on the alarm clock, silencing the device.

Silence.

The chirping of birds outside.

That fantastic cake, eaten within the privacy of the locked linen closet.

"Tony, the alarm clock went off. Time to get to breakfast."

Silence.

The tweeting of cardinals.

What linen closet?

Tony moves, flipping onto his stomach, his face smothered in his pillow. Could he choke himself, all wrapped up in cushions and blankets like that? No, Tony couldn't choke. In Steve's dream, he could hear Tony walking around from behind the linen closet door. He had been filled with anguish.

"Tony, breakfast is mandatory, remember?"

In his dream, Steve had been filled with anguish because he was afraid that Tony would see him with his cake.

The cardinals called louder.

The neighboring rooms came to life. Steve could hear the other students shuffling around in their rooms. They slammed doors. They played music. They laughed at jokes. They spoke.

Tony twisted around beneath his bedsheets.

Silence.

There was a subtle, but powerful memory of searchlights blinding him.

Steve had a lump in his throat now. In his dream, Tony was looking for him. He was looking for him. Steve had been filled with anguish because he was afraid Tony would catch up with him, so he found himself running down the halls of the private school residence hall. There were so many people. _Everyone_ had been in the residence hall, it was no longer just a building, but the entire world, with all of its seven billion people. Steve had run up and down the building/world, looking for a place to find refuge, but everyone locked their doors as they saw him approaching… This was the dream; so where did the cake come from? Why were there searchlights?

Tony let out the single most earth-shatteringly loud yawn Steve had ever heard. It was enough to get Steve to kick his feet over the side of the bed and wake up. But it wasn't enough to stir Tony himself. Tony just smacked his jaws a few times, eyes still shut, and proceeded to tangle himself in between the sheets and rugs of the bed.

Those searchlights, that cake… where did they go?

Steve took off, slipping out from beneath the sheets. He found, as he was standing, that he was overcome with a sense of vertigo.

"Shit," he muttered.

This happened often. Standing up too quickly made him dizzy. He forced himself to stand still for a while, giving his body time to adjust. When the foggy haziness in his vision ceased, Steve was finally able to take in a breath and start to think clearly. He reminded himself that it was morning, that he was at a new school/hospital/prison, and that he had a big day ahead of him. It occurred to Steve, as he was beginning to process these thoughts, that it was ominously dark inside of his dorm room.

He opened the curtains, sending a cascade of light to submerge the room. Steve was now blinded by the brightness of the light.

Of course, the searchlights.

They had not been _real _searchlights, at least, Steve didn't think so. They had been more like the alarm clock just now: faint, but blinding, and worrisome. They came from within the refrigerator. What refrigerator? Steve didn't know. Just _a _refrigerator. _Some_ refrigerator. Somewhere within the school/hospital/prison from his dream. As Steve was running, he found a room, perhaps a teachers' lounge. He went inside; it was the only room he could enter without someone locking him out. Inside, there was a refrigerator. It stood against the far wall. Naturally, Steve approached. He opened the door to reveal a _mass_ of searchlights, all directed at him. Severe, piercing lights were beaming directly into his eyes, stunning him. They were so _bright_, they were eerie. The only thing that he could make out through the harsh confusion was a strawberry cake, sitting tranquilly on a shelf within the fridge.

The alarm clock read that it was 6:47 now.

Tony was still asleep. Drool trickled down his chin and onto the pillow. His hair was a rat's nest. Steve approached him.

"Tony, you've got to get up, dude. It's not fair if you get to sleep and I don't."

Steve had made off with the cake. He bolted. He had never been able to run before. Normally, he would get dizzy and pass out within a few minutes. In his dream, Steve had run the entire hallway, the entire _world, _for that matter, without breaking a sweat. His senses were heightened, breathing quickening. The searchlights were on his tail, but he kept running, still clutching the strawberry cake. He locked himself in a linen closet, the searchlights unable to follow him past the door. Tony had been just outside, pounding on the linen closet door, asking, begging for Steve. But Steve wouldn't have any of it. He just wanted secrecy. He wanted his cake…

Wow, what a dream. Who knows whether Steve would have remembered it, if the alarm clock had not woken him. No, Steve never does remember his dreams on his own. That morning, the alarm clock had done something for him. It gave him permission to remember, remember the searchlights and that divine cake.

Steve frowned. What a dream, indeed.

* * *

Breakfast for Steve had been a complete bust.

After Tony _finally _woke up from his unhealthy attachment to lethargy, he clung to Steve throughout the rest of the morning. He ran his mouth like it was nobody's business, talking nonstop from the moment he woke up to the last few seconds of breakfast. Tony rambled about his "poor old man's knees" as Steve was getting ready for the day, about his "Scrooge of a father" and his "'I Love Lucy' of a Mother" as Steve buttoned his shirt, and even proceeded to describe to Steve the absolute, crucial details of his sex life as Steve was brushing his teeth. He accidentally choked on the toothpaste.

Then, without Steve's permission, Tony found Steve's school schedule and began to compare it to his own. Apparently, they shared P.E. class and mealtimes, but that was all. Tony went on a rant on how different the schedules were to the curriculum, considering the students' personal situations, yada yada yada yada.

But despite Tony's quick tongue, Steve didn't necessarily feel bothered. Back home, he was always alone in the morning. His mama would have already left for her job, and Steve would be on his own to eat a few breakfasts and prepare for school. Steve wouldn't admit that Tony's company was actually a nice break for him. Steve was, after all, trying to act rebellious against the school, right?

The only downside to Tony's clinging was that Steve was forced to resort to eating a "normal-sized" breakfast— whatever _normal_ even meant. To Steve, three or four plates _was _normal. Steve just didn't wish to scare his new roommate away because of his monstrous portions. Like stated earlier, Steve _liked _Tony. He just refused to admit it.

So Steve stood behind Tony in the line for breakfast. He tried to tune into Tony's talking so that he could distract himself from counting calories as he piled food onto his plate— his _one_ plate. Unluckily for Steve, Tony was narrating a poem about the last time he got high.

"—and then my dad walked in! He was all like, '_Son! The maid said she smelled weed from somewhere in the house! Do you know what she's talking about?'_ And, I just sorta stood there, actually laid there, I was lying down on my bed, remember? And, I just sorta panicked. Like, 'um… what am I supposed to say?' So, I did my best to put on a straight face and I was like, 'That's _crazy_.' Can you _believe_ I said that? I mean, what would _you_ say if your dad walked in, asking you about weed? Not that! But he actually believed me! God, my dad is an idiot!"

Steve hummed, hoping it was enough of a response to Tony's oh-so-charming story. He wasn't paying attention; he wanted to hold on to a few of his brain cells before Tony burned all of them out. He challenged himself to copy his roommate's breakfast. Everything Tony put on his plate, Steve put on his own plate.

That meant that everything Tony left untouched, Steve had to leave behind.

Tony directed Steve to a table indoors, a large, rectangular one placed next to the cafeteria's windows. At the table sat a few students, the same friends that Steve saw sitting with Tony yesterday for dinner. These two girls and one guy must be Tony's friends.

Tony was still running his mouth as he sat Steve down, right beside them. He set his plate down, but remained standing, "Imma be right back. I gotta go get my meds."

He started to run off, but he came back before he got far.

"Can you _believe_ that the nurses don't trust me to have my own medication?" Tony bellowed, arousing quiet laughter from a few of the kids, "I mean, they're _my_ meds! Shouldn't I be entitled to hold possession of substances that _I _put in _my_ body? I mean, isn't that an amendment or something? Like, in the Declaration of Independence or something?"

"Take your pills, Tony," one of the girls said, smirking.

Tony snapped his fingers, "You bet. Be right back. Take care of my new friend, here."

And with that, Tony scurried off.

It scared Steve how silent everything was all of a sudden.

He looked to Tony's band of friends, an eyebrow raised, "ADHD pills, perhaps?"

The same girl smiled, "How on _earth_ did you figure it out?"

In Steve's honest opinion, his breakfast today was the single worst meal he had ever had in his entire life, and it wasn't because of the food. The food was, as always, delicious. Everything to Steve was delicious. There was never any food that he didn't like. Beets, liver, black licorice, or anything else that is generally in the common people's distaste, Steve enjoys.

And, it wasn't as if Steve actually had beets, liver, and black licorice for breakfast. He actually had a mouth-watering delicacy of two slices of buttered toast, a portion of scrambled eggs, and a generous amount of bacon, accompanied by a glass of cranberry juice and two coffees. Steve was _eternally_ grateful that Tony wasn't afraid of having a large breakfast.

Tony didn't seem to be afraid of anything, actually. He was like Steve in the way that when he wanted to speak his mind, he just did, no forethought required. He was unlike Steve in the way that he wanted to speak his mind _all the time._

"I don't get you," Tony muttered, a mouth full of eggs, at some point during the meal. The question was so random and so mind-boggling that everyone at the table hushed, waiting to hear where the hell Tony was going with what he was saying.

Then, Steve realized that Tony was talking to _him._

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't _get _you. I think you're like the goody two-shoes All-American boy scout who wants to serve the country or whatever. I'm getting that sort of vibe from you. But at the same time, it's like you're also the bad boy who wants to rebel? I mean, you're really confusing me here!"

Tony was confusing Steve, too.

The same girl from before laughed, "Come on, Tony! You haven't known him a whole day, yet! Give him a break!"

The table laughed. Steve almost joined them.

Steve actually started to feel a little bit of hope halfway through the meal. It occurred to him that if he continues to eat what Tony eats, exactly what Tony eats, he may be able to look like Tony. Or, in other words, he may just be able to put on a few pounds.

But that sliver of hope was soon obliterated. That was why this breakfast was so awful; Steve remembered the anxiety he had when it came to eating around people.

The kids he was sitting with were loud, excited, and active. Even after taking ADHD medication, Tony was still as flamboyantly gleeful as always—certainly less hectic, but he was still talking nonstop.

Steve felt as if they were watching him eat. Their eyes were as hungry as he was, starving, ravishing for a taste. He could _feel_ the intense gazes on his plate as he picked up his fork. He started to become anxious, _really _anxious. His jaws were snapped tight, and he tried to avert his eyes to the food before him. He wanted to eat. He wanted to eat and eat and eat until his stomach was so full that he would faint.

But he couldn't, not with the entire world watching him.

Steve ate about half a slice of toast before he felt nauseous. He thought he was going to throw up.

He stood from the seat, "I need to go," he said. Steve didn't wait for Tony and his friends to respond. He shuffled for the door, head down, hands fisted in his pockets. He kept scurrying around campus, searching for some sort of sanctuary he could stay in until the next meal time.

He was passing the front office doors when he stopped dead in his tracks. He could see the outline of a woman through the window, signing in on a sheet of paper at the front desk. She was tall, attractive, and wore her bright red hair in a tight bun on top of her head.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief, smiling, "Natasha Romanoff."


	6. Effortless

"So how old are you?" she asked with the most endearing smile Steve has ever seen in his life. But despite the pureness literally radiating off of the girl next to him, Steve was terse.

"Nineteen," he muttered, glaring ahead.

"And you're still in high school?" she asked. It could have been an offensive question, but she didn't mean anything by it. She asked the question genuinely, with curiosity. Her pale green eyes glimmered with soft care.

"I was held back in middle school. Too many fist fights," he said.

She gave Steve a pitying look, but for the first time, the expression didn't attack him. The girl was sympathizing with him. She made a genuine connection.

But Steve was nonetheless tense.

However, it wasn't the girl's fault. She was an angel. She was the first face of real humanity that Steve has seen in the school. God, no, it wasn't her fault. It was Natasha Romanoff's fault.

Natasha sat in an upright hard-backed chair, clipboard and pen in hand. Around her, a group of twelve students sat in chairs. The plastic chairs were arranged in a large circle, facing inwards, like how seating is in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

This was the Group Seminar that Steve for which was scheduled. He hadn't wanted to go, not at all. He had planned to skip the class, be rebellious, take charge in his own life. But then he saw Natasha in the office. He had been excited, thinking that she was coming in to visit him.

See, Natasha was one of Bucky's friends. She was thirty one years old, but they had still been friends for virtually Steve's entire life. So naturally, they started being friends on their own, without Bucky's presence. After a while, Nat became his big sister figure. She would take him food shopping when no one else would, often even offering to pay, despite the fact that Steve's grocery bills usually have three digits. She sometimes took Steve to the gym with her, and she would never bring up how fatigued Steve was after each training session.

They were friends.

Steve had trusted her.

How can he trust her now?

Natasha was the director of his Group Seminar. She was his teacher, his psychologist. She was one of _them._

"That's a very good improvement," Natasha—no, _Ms. Romanoff_— said to a student who learned to keep her hands out of a bag of chips. Natasha was nodding, smiling, writing little notes down on her clipboard.

Steve sucked his teeth. Natasha was _never_ one to smile. He always used to respect her for that.

After taking her notes, Ms. Romanoff then addressed the girl who was sitting next to Steve; she was the same girl who had spoken to him at breakfast, Tony's friend.

"Wanda Maximoff," Ms. Romanoff spoke gently, kindly—_Fuck,_ what a _fake_— "Last week you talked a lot about how you are starting to like dancing now. Do you have anything to add to that?"

The girl, Wanda, nodded excitedly, "Yes, ma'am. I've been dancing, like, every day now! I really enjoy it, since I have so much more energy."

Based solely on her body type, Steve assumed that Wanda was in anorexia recovery. She was thin, and he could tell that she wasn't naturally slender. But who was he to assume? After all, _he_ wasn't anorexic and he was almost half her size.

"That's very good, dear," Natasha said, writing some more.

Dear? Really? _Dear?_

"And you know why you have so much more energy now, right?"

"Because I've put on six pounds!"

The class clapped for her.

"While that is very good, it's not entirely true. Most of your energy comes from your diet, not just your weight. Keep eating the way you are, with everything balanced."

Ms. Romanoff scanned over her clipboard and then decided she needed to leave one more input, "I think you're a little low on calcium, though. Maybe squeeze in some ice cream for dessert tonight, or milk instead of orange juice tomorrow morning."

Wanda smiled, proud of herself, "Yes, ma'am."

As the class started to murmur amongst themselves, mostly of trivial nothings, Ms. Romanoff glanced at the digital clock on the wall. She set her lips firmly, nodding, "Okay, class, it's about that time. I'm proud of everyone's progress since last week!"

The people around Steve began gathering their notebooks and backpacks. They chatted, most of them freely and happily, relaxed from their discussion session with the group. Wanda reached under her chair, between the legs, to pull out a black notebook that she decorated with pink and red stickers. She smiled at Steve as she packed it into her backpack.

"Do you want to go grab a snack before lunch with me?" she offered, excited.

Steve almost felt bad for turning her down.

"Actually," Steve began, casting a look at the teacher of the group seminar, "I need to do something real quick."

"Oh. Okay," she tightened the straps on her backpack, "I'll see you later, then!"

"Okay."

Steve waited until every last student left the room. He made sure the door was shut, before rising from his seat and approaching the teacher's desk, where Ms. Romanoff sat, adjusting some papers on her table.

"Natasha."

"Steve," she greeted, suddenly switching back into her usual, monotone way of speaking. The blank expression in her eyes returned. And, strangely, Steve found it much more comforting than her bizarre faux politeness. It was like Natasha had a switch inside of her, one flip and she's a quiet, kind, teacher lady, and another flip and she's herself. It was unnerving.

"How are you doing?" she asked him, casually, as if the group seminar never even occurred. As if she wasn't his teacher. As if they weren't currently locked inside of an eating disorder help facility.

"I'm pretty pissed, actually."

"I didn't ask about your _feelings._ I asked how you were _doing._ As in, are you sleeping well, are you eating well, how are your stress levels? Etcetera."

"Well, like I said," Steve started, crossing his arms, "I'm pretty pissed. How could you do this to me?"

"I beg your pardon?" she raised one eyebrow, but her expression was as stoic as ever.

"How could you have this job? How could you be here, keep me here?"

"I've been working here for two and a half years now."

"You told me you were a psychiatrist!"

"I _am _a psychiatrist," she stated, beginning to appear a little offended, "I monitor the levels of students' mental health and I prioritize safe and effective sessions and plans to improve their situations."

Steve felt guilty. But only for a little bit.

"So," he released his crossed arms and let them dangle at his sides, surrendering, "so is it your fault that I'm here?"

Natasha never used body language. She had always believed that doing so takes away from the power of the voice and face. But Steve could tell that if she did use body language, she would be rubbing her temples right now.

"Steve," she said, a little irritably, "I had no idea until Bucky told me. I only work here. I don't understand why you see this as a bad thing-"

"-Oh, I think you understand just fine."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Natasha, I don't want to be here."

"I know, babe."

Steve could feel the tears begin to well in his eyes. He couldn't hide himself, not from Natasha. Even though he was the tough, no-nonsense kid from Brooklyn, he couldn't hide from a friend— no matter how much he was angry with her in the moment. His protective mask began to crumble away as he started to lose his voice, tears threatening to roll down his sunken cheeks.

"I mean I _really_ don't want to be here… I don't want to be _sick."_

"You _grew up_ sick, Steve."

"That's why I don't want to be here!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms out to the side, "I don't want to be constantly reminded of how weak I am. I-"

He broke off.

"Go on."

"...nah."

"Steve, as both your psychiatrist and your friend, I order you to-"

"-I don't _feel_ sick."

"..."

"Really. I don't have anorexia. I don't."

"..."

"And I don't want people like you to keep telling me that I do when _I don't."_

Natasha sucked in air before speaking, "In my experience, I have noticed, especially with boys, that the person being affected doesn't always recognize his… situation as an eating dis-"

"-_Nat._ C'mon. Seriously."

"..."

"I've known you since I was _nine_…" Steve said. He had planned for it to be a powerful, non-negotiable statement. Instead, he sounded like he was begging. For whatever reason, tears were now falling from his eyes red with whimpering. He went on, "Has there ever been anything wrong with me?"

The silence between them was deafening.

Steve had never felt more betrayed.

* * *

"So do you want to sit with us at lunch again?" Wanda asked, bubbly as ever, as she walked Steve down the residential building hallway.

Steve was an aggressively passionate person, much like his roommate, Tony. And he knew that. However, he preferred to hold his tongue, unlike Tony, who just said whatever came to mind. Steve liked to rebel in his own silent way.

But he was on the last straw.

Normally, when Steve was determined to get something done, he would get it done. Whatever it was, _he could do it all day._

But he was tired. He was on a breaking point. He didn't know if he could hold his tongue for much longer.

"Look, Wanda—wait, that's your name, right? Wanda?" Steve asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as they walked.

"Uh huh."

"Okay, great. Look, Wanda, I'm sort of having a bad day right now. I'm just going to go to my room for now, okay?"

"Oh," if Wanda was disappointed, she didn't show it, "that's okay."

They walked back to his room without saying much. Steve couldn't help but appreciate the space she was giving him. She walked him all the way back to his room without saying anything, and he was really grateful.

"I hope you get to feeling better!" she said as he unlocked his door with the room key around his neck.

_Me too,_ he thought to himself.

He waved her goodbye, and then locked the door behind him.

Tony was in the room, splayed on his stomach over the bed. He was occupied with his phone, completely engrossed in whatever video game he was playing. His eyes were glued to the screen, fingers tapping rapidly. He didn't even acknowledge Steve.

Steve did the same, ignoring his roommate. He looked over his schedule on his desk. Lunch was in twenty minutes. It was mandatory.

Maybe Steve would just pop in to the cafeteria, grab a truckload of food, and stash it in his room. And then he would skip the rest of his classes for the day. Maybe he would even work out a little in his room, the way he used to with Bucky, Natasha, and the others. But he knew that was just wishful thinking. Imagine, Steve being _fit; _the thought was laughable.

Speaking of laughable, the intensity written across Tony's face was hilariously intense. The guy was writhing with determination to beat the level— or, whatever it was he was doing in the game. Steve couldn't tell; Tony's fingers were tapping at the screen so quickly that all Steve could see were a couple beams of color accompanied with graphic digital explosions.

Tony eventually threw his phone back down onto the bed, groaning.

Steve smirked, "Did you win?" he asked sarcastically.

"Haha, very funny," Tony muttered. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath of air.

Then all of a sudden, Tony shot up from the bed, eyes wide, and with intention.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "I just remembered!"

Tony then backpedaled to his side of he and Steve's shared desk. (The difference between the desk they shared was comical. There was a legitimate line down its center. Steve's side was empty, save for a few papers and a pamphlet stacked neatly in the corner, since Steve was brand new to the school. Tony's side, however, was littered with...well, anything and everything.) Tony dug through his pile of things, somehow knowing exactly where to find a white envelope.

He held it out to Steve, "The hall monitor came by earlier and said this came in the mail for you."

Steve was confused. He hadn't expected anyone to write him.

Nevertheless, he took the envelope from Tony. He smiled, and realized that it all made sense when he read that it was from Bucky.

"So, who wrote you?" Tony asked haphazardly, hopping back onto his bed, returning to his phone.

"It's not a letter," Steve explained, opening it, "it's my paycheck."

He couldn't help but feel happy as he thought about how caring Bucky must be to send him a paycheck despite the fact that Steve wouldn't be working for him anymore. He was a real pal.

Tony raised an eyebrow, suddenly forgetting about his phone and actually paying attention, "Paycheck?"

"Yeah."

"You have a job?"

"Yeah."

"What do you do?"

"I work in an auto repair shop," Steve rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm not all that good at it."

There was about three seconds of silence. It started to make Steve uncomfortable. They had only been casually conversing, but now Tony was staring him down with serious eyes.

"Okay. What's going on?" Tony bellowed in a deep voice.

Steve gulped.

Tony went on, "When the hell did you get so cool?!" he broke into a smile and jumped off of his bed with excitement.

"I had no idea you were into mechanics! I am too!" Tony exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, as if his ADHD medication suddenly flushed out of his system.

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm _into _mech-"

"-What kind of equipment you on, dude?"

"The 'creeper' mostly. 'Cause o' my size."

"So? Engineers _need_ little people! If _I _could fit under my Tesla like you could-" Tony let out an exasperated sigh of pleasure. Steve could only imagine what kind of thoughts the mechanic fanatic had spiraling in his head.

Tony snapped back, "What 'creeper' brand?"

"_JEGs _mostly. When it's being cleaned or something I'm on the _Pro-Lift."_

"Not a bad rebounder though!"

"Not bad at all! I'm not complaining!"

If, say, a valley girl, or jock, or some other labelled individual unassociated with the world of mechanics and engineering were to walk inside their dorm room right now, that person would probably walk right back out again. Steve wasn't necessarily interested in his line of work. He much rather preferred the arts. Or, even, Steve would much rather talk about the military or politics than his job as an auto repair mechanic.

But because of his job, he connected with someone. He connected with his roommate, which is pretty damn important.

Steve made a mental note to thank Bucky later.

As Steve was lost in thought, he didn't notice that Tony was encroaching on him. In fact, he had no idea Tony had inched up close at all until he could feel his roommate's arms embracing him in a big hug. A _big_ hug.

Steve was surprised; he was even a little confused to say the least. But nonetheless, he patted the back of Tony's arms as they "hugged" each other. He couldn't help but appreciate how much joy Tony had about something for which Steve cared so little. Tony was making an _effort_.

So Steve hugged back. He felt _good_ for perhaps the first time today. He realized, as he was standing in the middle of his dorm room hugging Tony, that _all_ the students here—not only Wanda— were humans too. They were _all _trying to make an effort.

But then Steve felt Tony stiffen. The embrace went cold.

Tony pulled back, his expression somber.

"Dude," he said, concern in his eyes, "You're so _thin."_

A lump rose in Steve's throat.

"Hey, man," Tony continued, pointing a finger, "I saw something on your back."

"What?"

"I know what it was. You need to go to the nurse. Right now."


	7. Even Fighters Need to Rest Sometimes

Steve wasn't strong. That was a no-brainer. But that has never stopped him from picking fights. Growing up in the bad side of Brooklyn, New York, wasn't easy. It wasn't easy financially, and it certainly wasn't easy for his social life.

Growing up, Steve used to defend younger kids from bullies on the playground, or girls whose skirts were lifted by boys. He would even scrap with anyone who looked at him twice. Steve had morals; and he was willing to fight for them. Because of that, fighting disrupted his childhood on the daily. That's why he was held back a year in school, after breaking a bully's nose.

He didn't win the fights much. Hell, he never won. He won once, but it didn't really count; the kid he was fighting had the flu in the middle of July.

But Steve had always held his ground, even as he was losing. He would simply say, 'I can do this all day,' and get on with it. He would continue to hold his ground until he was beaten to a pulp and Bucky would have to take him home.

Thank God for Bucky.

Steve wasn't strong. But he was a fighter. Thank God for that, too. He needed to be a fighter right about now: with his roommate literally _dragging_ Steve down the hallway to the nurse's office.

Tony held Steve locked in his arms, Steve's chest firmly clamped down against Tony's waist, leaving Steve's legs and feet to dangle on the floor as he was _towed_ against his will. Steve was clawing at Tony's arms and desperately trying to plant his feet firmly on the carpeted floor to gain some leverage, but he wasn't succeeding in the least; Tony must have been a fighter, too.

All the while Steve was struggling, and clawing, and kicking, and all the while Tony prevailed in holding him hostage, they were fighting vocally as well. And, they really were _fighting_ vocally. Some of the doors down the hallway opened as they moved further down, with the kids inside curious or annoyed to find two of their fellow students creating a certainly unique display in the residence hall.

It was all happening so suddenly. So strangely suddenly. Only a moment ago, Steve and Tony had been fervently chatting about mechanics before they were hugging. They were actually _hugging_; and they meant it, too. And now, for some bizarre reason _completely unknown _to Steve, Tony was frantically rushing Steve to the nurse's office.

"Dude, _stop it!" _Steve exclaimed, slamming his heel down on Tony's foot.

Tony yelped in response, and then retaliated by dragging Steve around more roughly, "_Shut up!_ If you just _agreed_ to go to the nurse's office with me like any _normal_ person would–"

"–but I'm not sick!"

"_Yes you are!"_

"_Let me go!"_

"_No!"_

"_I hate you!"_

If Steve's words were affecting Tony at all, Tony wasn't showing it. He held his ground, gripping onto Steve with what felt like every ounce of strength he could muster.

Tony looked back and forth across the hall quickly, as though he were checking if the coast was clear. Then, with Steve still firmly pressed to his chest, he dove into an empty lounge nearby. He threw the weaker student down on the sofa, and proceeded to lock the lounge's doors. They were alone.

Steve, gasping for breath after being thrown so harshly, struggled to sit up. When he eventually did, he made eye contact with Tony, with intensity.

Tony was stammering nervously, "D-Did you see it? The-The-The _thing_ on your back?"

Steve shook his head. He raised an eyebrow. What was Tony up to?

Right in front of Steve, Tony looked like he was engaged in some sort of internal battle. He was jittery all over, and very obviously thinking through some things inside his head.

"What _thing_ on my back?"

"T-T-The _thing."_

"What, like a spider or something? Just kill it."

Tony was acting like he was drugged. First, he was spazzing out all over the place. Now, he was scarily still and serious.

"No, man," he said in a voice like ice, "I think you have pellagra."

"Tony, I _told _you. I don't have an eating disorder!"

Tony sat down on the couch next to Steve. It was an awkward move. Steve certainly didn't see it coming, and Tony didn't seem to be sure of his confidence in sitting down beside him. It was bold, but embarrassing for the both of them.

Tony cleared his throat a bit before he began, "Here in school, we're taught a lot about the things that could kill us because of our eating habits. This thing, pellagra–I don't know why this is the _one lesson I actually remembered_, guess it's kinda helpful, huh? Anyway, this thing. We classify it by what we're told are the 'Four D's,'" he paused a moment to let it sink in, "First there's dermatitis. That was that thing on your back. A huge clump of white hair."

"_White hair?"_ Steve exclaimed.

"Yeah… it's not supposed to be a thing we see here. Usually happens in South America and Africa."

"..."

"You're a special case, aintcha?"

"..."

"Okay. Then there's diarrhea. Followed by dementia. And then… death."

"..."

"You're dying, Steve."

"..."

"..."

"Is that what your old roommate had before he died? Pellagra?"

Tony was almost caught off guard, "What? Oh. Oh no. No, he didn't have that. He, um. His name was Rhodey. He was anorexic and bulimic together. Had a heart attack trying to get himself to vomit."

"That's awful."

"Yeah. He was a great guy."

There was a moment of apologetic space between them. Steve felt horrible. Not because of the surprising death news, though. No, Steve, for some reason he couldn't fathom, felt sick with himself for causing Tony pain. This guy, this insane, nihilistic guy who picked on him for being skinnier than Cher, felt like a friend. A real friend.

Steve didn't want to fight this guy.

"...did you say one of the symptoms of the disease is diarrhea?"

"Yeah."

"Well… I've been having diarrhea since.. God, I don't even know when. My whole life pretty much, because I was a sickly baby. I never really phased out of it I guess."

Tony suddenly sat upright, his back as straight as Natasha's, "Yeah?"

"Um," Steve was confused as to how talk about literal crap magically cured Tony's melancholy, "Yeah."

"Your whole life?"

"Yeah."

"And you've always been thin?"

"Yeah."

"Dude!" Tony shouted, jumping up from the sofa with excitement. His hands were up with celebration, "Oh my fucking god you're not anorexic!"

"Tony, I-"

Steve couldn't finish his thought. Tony grabbed him by the wrist, and once more, started to run down the hall with him. Steve didn't fight this time though. He felt… maybe he could trust Tony. At least this time.


	8. I Love You, But No Homo

Steve didn't want to see Natasha again. Not after what she said to him. But he had no choice.

Tony, apparently as strong as a bodybuilder, was able to drag Steve once more down the hall, all the way to Natasha's classroom. So that meant Tony had Steve thrown over his shoulders, Tony's shoulder blade painfully jabbing Steve's stomach, as they struggled across the entire campus. Yeah. The entire campus. So everyone from the students to the custodians witnessed the incomprehensible and somehow laughable bickering between the roommates for the entire journey. Steve would have been embarrassed if he wasn't so angry.

In the back of his mind, though, Steve had to admit, he noticed how much gentler Tony was handling him compared to last time. The guy was just faking it, Steve realized. Tony was only pretending to be aggressively forceful with him so that Steve wouldn't look like a pussy being carried around like a baby. He was giving Steve a "real fight." It almost made Steve look _strong_.

Yeah, it's ironic. Terribly ironic. What with Steve being carried like a sack of potatoes over Tony's shoulders. But with the roommates "fighting" like they were, it appeared as if Steve and Tony were evenly matched. And Tony did that for him.

Steve really appreciated it.

The sentiment was short-term though. They were approaching Natasha's classroom. The door was closed shut, but it had a window that displayed the inside of the classroom. Through the window, Natasha was seen standing over her desk, red hair falling down to one side of her porcelain face, as she scanned over documents and paperwork. Natasha being Natasha, she didn't have to look up to know she was being watched.

"You can come in," she called to them. Steve wondered if Natasha even knew it was him or just anyone at the door. He then thought to himself, _of course_ she knew it was him. This was Natasha, after all.

Tony took the cue and went into the crane kick position from _Karate Kid. _Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Trust me," Tony winked, hands over head and leg tucked up in a nearly perfect position. Then he took a deep breath to ready himself, before proceeding with the movement. He crane kicked the door handle with grand and excessive force. The kick made a _bump _noise as his foot collided with the door handle.

The handle twitched, but it didn't open the door. Of course it didn't open the door. It was scientifically impossible for a brief touch of force to turn a metal handle ninety degrees clockwise and then push the entire door inwards.

Tony frowned. Like he miscalculated something. It was funny; he was still in the crane kick position.

Steve decided to cut the waiting short. He turned the handle, using his _hands,_ opened the door, and entered the room. Natasha was right where he and Tony had seen her from the window, standing over her desk. She glanced up haphazardly from her paperwork, slightly confused to see Steve in her office and slightly more confused to see Tony crouching on one leg with his arms spread out and up like a bird in the doorway.

But, being Natasha, she got over her confusion quickly, "Steve. Tony. What brings you here? It's almost lunch time, you know."

Tony, after moving to stand upright like any sane person would, approached Natasha dead on. He was positioned merely inches from her, smiling like the goof he was.

"Romanoff, Steve's not anorexic!" he exclaimed.

Natasha didn't even hesitate, "Thank you for telling me. Go on to lunch, now."

Tony's demeanour changed almost instantly. He was suddenly serious, "Ms. Romanoff, I'm telling the truth."

He even addressed her with "miss." That's how serious he was.

"Look," Natasha began, taking the space, "I don't know why the housing committee roomed the two of you together. Personally, I think you're the worst possible pair. But Tony, Steve has his own issues to work through right now. I know you think it's fun to pretend you're not bulimic, but you can't pull Steve into your game here. Steve has issues that–"

"Holy shit!"

"–are only a concern of his and his doctor's–"

"I can't believe you just said that! Holy shit! Holy shit!"

"–only. Anthony Stark if you don't stop cursing _this instant–"_

"_-Fuck_ you!" Tony shouted, eyes wide open, "I still _can't even–_I mean _wow! _Are you even _allowed_ to talk about your students like that?!"

"–I'm going to give you detention."

Tony persisted, "I don't care. _Please _hear me out, Romanoff."

"Tony–" Natasha stressed. Clearly, she was losing authority.

"Hear us out!" Tony commanded once more.

"Tony, I really don't want you to–"

Finally Steve decided he was done having them talk about him as he was standing right there beside them.

"Natasha," he said, voice like ice.

That got their attention.

Natasha faltered, "Steve, I–"

"–I'm not calling you 'Ms. Romanoff.' Not ever."

There was a beat.

"That's fair," Natasha replied, easing gently. Tony looked confused.

"And I'm not sick," Steve went on, "I told you that before. And Tony believes me."

On that last note, Steve sent his roommate a hint of a smile. But he didn't anticipate Tony's response.

Instead of smiling back, Tony flushed a bit. His head ducked between his shoulders, "That's not what I said."

Steve felt his heart break a bit, "What? But you.. you–"

"–I said you weren't anorexic. I never said you weren't sick."

"...Oh."

"...You're very sick, Steve."

"..."

Natasha was respectfully silent.

Tony turned back to her, "He has pellagra."

For the first time in Steve's entire life, he saw Natasha look uncomfortable. She even looked _disturbed._

"Why would you say such a thing?" she scowled in a heavy tone.

Tony bowed his head at her tone, intimidated beyond imaginary, "I saw it. On his back."

Without warning, Natasha's hand shot at Steve. Her painted red nails clawed at the bottom of his t-shirt and started to pull upwards, but Steve wouldn't have it.

He recoiled in only a second. Pressing the sides of the shirt firmly against his torso, he backed up five feet, until he was nearly outside of the room.

"Don't touch me," he said.

"Steve."

"Not after what you said to me. You don't get to touch me."

Not one of them spoke.

Steve had in the back of his mind an inkling of what to say next. It sounded childish. He _knew _it sounded childish, but there were no other words to use. He needed to say it as bluntly and sharply as possible.

"You're not my friend anymore, Natasha."

The psychologist teacher, however, didn't seem to get the message. She advanced on him, but Steve continued to back away. Every step she took towards him, Steve jumped or bolted another three or four feet.

They must have looked ridiculous, Steve realized, chasing each other around a classroom like little children. Not that it really mattered. It was only them plus Tony (who really didn't give a crap about anything) in there.

Steve didn't know he was cornered until it was too late.

It wasn't that Natasha got him. No, she was still too far away.

It was that Steve found himself out of breath, his heart beating rapidly. He didn't realize how exhausted and exhilarated he was until his hand made contact with the wall. When he did, his other hand found its way to his chest, pressing against it to feel the abnormally quick and irregular heart beats. It was then that he noticed he wasn't breathing correctly, and little black fuzzies creeped into his vision. The last thing he could register was Natasha's hand gently touching his shoulder before he passed out.

* * *

"There he is~"

Steve couldn't see anything, but he was able to register a shrilling attempt at a singsong voice coming from somewhere close to him.

"~Mister America~"

As Steve's vision returned, he allowed himself to take a grand breath. The air entered his entire body, flowing deep into his abdominal region. He let himself release. With breathing done and out of the way, his vision was getting better and better by the second.

Now able to see without fuzz again, Steve realized that he was in the hallway, lying with his back flat against a cushioned bench, staring at the ceiling. He could feel a warmth from the top side of his body, and knew that it was Tony sitting next to him on the bench. Who else would sing such a song?

Steve started to sit up. Tony took initiative and placed his hands on Steve's shoulders.

"Hey, now, cowboy! Take it slow!" Tony exclaimed.

Steve would have taken offense and retaliated at Tony's sympathy–as Steve does with almost all sympathies– but he felt _tired_. He felt deluded. It was weird. He was hazy and sore as if he were drugged. For that reason, he allowed Tony to help him sit up.

Steve placed a hand to his forehead.

Tony let him go, "How you feelin'?"

"Mmnn… Bad..." was all Steve was able to say.

"You worried me for a second there, bud. You just fainted out of nowhere."

"Mmnn..."

"...Does that happen a lot?"

Steve nodded, closing his eyes shut. A headache was starting to split inside his brain.

There was a beat before Tony spoke again.

"Y'know. You're one lucky dog!"

"Hm?" Steve opened his eyes and looked to Tony, to make sure he heard correctly, "What?"

"You're so lucky. The _only _two lessons I've accidentally remembered apply to you. How lucky is that? I, like, _never _listen to lessons!"

It took a while, but Steve understood what Tony was getting at.

"What's my second disease?"

For the first time since Steve has known him, Tony appeared to be unsure of himself, "You know what?" he was trying to convince Steve he still had confidence, Steve could tell, "Why dontcha just wait for a real doctor to tell you? I don't wanna diagnose you with anything and then be wrong."

"..."

"Not that I'm ever wrong."

"..."

"It's just that it would be embarrassing on _your _part. Not mine; I'm never wrong!" Tony laughed.

There was an uncomfortably long silence. Steve wanted to speak up to break the awkward tension, but he was still feeling lightheaded. He feared he might black out again if he pushed himself.

Luckily, Tony picked up the slack and said something, "You know, that was really petty of you."

"Petty? What was?"

"How you turned on Romanoff like that just because she said something. That's pretty petty. I thought you were better than that."

"You didn't hear what she _said_, Tony. She told me… when did she tell me?... earlier, I guess, after class."

"So?"

"She said something that hurt me Tony. She said something that... only the worst people say."

"_So?"_

"..."

"Words are stupid, Steve. Don't let words get to you. There's a lot of deeper shit in the context of things."

"For once, I think you're actually making a little bit of sense, Tony."

A smirk fell on Tony's face, "Don't get used to it," there was a bit of a pause before his smirk fell. He took a breath before speaking again, "Does Wanda know?"

"Does Wanda know what? That Natasha was being a bi—" Steve took a second to correct himself, thinking about what Tony just taught him, "—That Natasha and I… are friends?"

"No. Does she know about your… condition?"

"No," Steve did his best to not be aggressive when he added, "I don't go around talking about diarrhea, you know. Why does it matter if she knows?"

"I don't know.. she's…" Steve could see Tony desperately trying to think of the right word, "...touchy. She just cares a lot. What about Pepper and Pietro?"

"Who?"

"My other friends. The ones you met at breakfast. Pietro and Wanda are twins."

"Oh, are they? Neat. Anyway, I haven't really talked to them yet. So I don't think so."

"Okay."

"Why, are they 'touchy' too?"

Tony bit the inside of his cheek, "Everyone here is. Honestly, it's just so toxic. Especially the girls."

"What do you mean?"

"The _girls,_ dude. They're, like, so _mean._ Most of them are just here because their parents wanted them here. They still find ways to vomit and skip meals and stuff. Shit, they spend their free time comparing their thigh sizes. It's just so gross. Not that the guys are any different, but you know what I mean."

"Damn."

"Yeah. No shit."

"Why did they think it was a good idea to lock kids with eating disorders in a prison together?"

"No _shit._"

"That's just inhumane."

"Yeah… So be nice to Wanda and Pepper, okay? Pietro too. They actually want to get better," Tony's voice faltered at the end of his sentence. Steve glanced over at him to note that his eyes were glassy with tears threatening to fall. With a shuddery breath, Tony went on, "They're trying so hard, man. So hard."

"..."

"..."

"And you're not, Tony?"

Tony inhaled deeply, "I'm gonna tell you something. But I don't want you to tell anyone else, okay?"

Steve could feel his heart starting to beat rapidly. He didn't yet understand what Tony was getting at, but somehow it was already affecting him. The way Tony's form just _crumpled_ at the intimations of what he was preparing to say captured Steve's heart. His roommate was deflating before his eyes.

"Sure," Steve replied, "I'm not the type of person to tell."

"I don't have bulimia…"

"...you've said that already, Tony—"

"—Let me finish," he took a steadying breath, "I don't have bulimia. But sometimes I make myself throw up."

"Tony…"

"I do it for _them."_

"Excuse me?"

"Pepper..." Tony was starting to get worked up now, that was easy to see. His breathing was irregular and the tears were triggering now, "I fucking love Pepper, man. I _love_ her. We—We've been dating for a little less than a year now, and she's still so sick... A-And Pietro and Wanda, they're such good people, man…"

Tony didn't say anything for a while. He was hunched over, fists clenched under his chin. The tears were certainly rolling down his face now, but he didn't seem to notice. He was completely lost in thought, it seemed.

Steve was gentle when he pried on, "Tony, why do you make yourself throw up?"

"Because I _love _them. I need to stay here, to make sure they get better."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Maybe it was because Steve still felt like he was in a deluded and numb state of mind, but had no idea why he decided to say, "I don't get you either."

Tony didn't need to give a verbal response; his confusion was apparent.

Steve continued in his distorted pattern of speech, "Yesterday… or whenever it was, you said you didn't get' me. Said I was All-American but a rebel or something… I don't get you either."

Tony raised an eyebrow in a high, exaggerated arch, "Why? What do you think I am?"

"You're insane. And bouncy, and energetic, and sometimes rude," Steve yawned, still trapped in his daze, "...but, you're sweet."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Tony forced a laugh. He wiped at his face, "Haha. Thanks, man. But no homo, though."

"No homo," Steve smiled back.

There was a door a little way down the bench in the hallway. It opened with a sudden abrupt swing, a swarm of people storming out. Natasha walked with them, alongside three or four administrators of the school and two doctors.

Steve shot up from the bench immediately.

Too immediately. He got dizzy and needed to sit down again. Tony placed his hand on Steve's shoulder to steady him.

Natasha spotted them and stopped in her tracks. She and Steve locked eyes. As the crowd of people moved on down the hallway, muttering and secretly conversing under their breaths, Natasha went the opposite direction and came to approach Steve and Tony.

Though it may sound like a paradox, Steve found comfort in how blank her expression was. This was the Natasha he remembered growing up with. Though as she came nearer, Steve could identify the strain behind her face. She was forcing herself to be minute in her appearance.

That was worrying.

When Natasha drew close enough, right in front of Steve and Tony, she squatted down facing them like the way a mother would when she talks to a young child. The position was _defeating._ She was so unlike herself in this form.

Tony must have sensed it too. He placed a hand on Steve's knee.

Natasha took a breath, "Steve, I was talking to the doctors. They think you have cachexia."

Tony muttered, "I knew it."

"W-What does that mean?" Steve asked. He could feel his chin trembling.

"It means you might have cancer."


	9. A Powerless Mother

Growing up, most children are taught that they have to be fair to one another. They are taught a kinder, far less violent version of "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." Steve and Bucky were never taught that. Their parents knew better. Steve and Bucky were taught from day one that life isn't fair, it was never going to be fair and so don't try to make it fair; instead, just sit back, shut up, and accept it.

Because the lesson was taught to Steve at such a young age, he never really understood the depth of it. But he really, really appreciated it. A side effect of the lesson was that Steve learned to cherish the moments in life that were fair.

But that didn't stop him from abhorring the times life isn't fair.

It wasn't fair that Steve had to miss lunch while he sat in the nurse's hallway waiting for his test results. He was hungry. Additionally, by sitting here in a cheap, blue plastic chair in the nurse's hallway, he was breaking the only rule he wanted to obey.

It had been a week after Natasha broke Steve's heart twice in one day. After the pep talk from Tony, Steve was able to forgive her for her harsh words. She had only been preaching the truth, as much as Steve hated to admit it. The second thing she said, 'They think you have cachexia. It means you might have cancer,' wasn't her fault either. Again, she was only speaking the truth. But this time, she made it lucid how much pain she was in to deliver that blow. And what a blow it was. Steve was in anguish. He had been. Every day.

As soon as she broke the news last week, Steve was immediately tested. Really. _Immediately._ They flew doctors in to the school within two hours to perform various tests on him.

Steve wasn't new to medical tests; he had been sick all his life. But these tests were the first ones to actually frighten him. That alone concerned him.

He had done them all before. Imaging, radiology, ultrasound, CT scans, even nuclear medicine scans were nothing new to him. In fact, he had been through his first nuclear medicine scan when he was six years old because the doctors told him they didn't understand his body's chemistry. Steve remembered that day. His mother had went out and bought for him a balloon afterwards. He _remembered _that. Steve even remembered the way mother had said, 'It's only fair, Stevie, after what you went through today.'

It wasn't fair how quick the results came back. It was insane. Steve had never before waited for such a short time until he was given results. Only ten days ago Natasha first told him he was suspected of cachexia (a disease, or condition, or something of which Steve has no knowledge) and cancer, too. The results were already back and that caught him off guard in the most protruding and insulting way.

It wasn't fair that Bucky had to take time off work to accompany Steve. Bucky didn't mind, he said. 'I want to support you, Stevie,' he said. Steve didn't think Bucky was lying, Bucky wasn't the type of person to do that, but he couldn't help but feel bad that he had to close the auto repair shop and drive two hours without any notice ahead of time. That was just rude on his own part.

However, Steve didn't deny that he was glad to have his best friend here for this. In fact, he had no shame in displaying it. He was holding Bucky's hand, and no, they weren't a couple. At this point, Steve didn't care how many times passing students would ask him if he was 'gay' and if this 'handsome older man' was his boyfriend. It didn't bother him. If anything, it helped him. Getting a little offended and riled up helped distract him from his nerves. Plus, it gave him a few more inside jokes to share with his best friend, and those never went unappreciated.

But that didn't mean it was fair to drag Bucky from his line of work so he can babysit his sickly kid friend. It wasn't fair that Tony, too, was here.

Except, Tony came on his own. That was what surprised Steve the most.

Apparently, Tony had attended extra class hours every single day since Natasha first broke the news. He was building up enough hours to compensate for missing today's classes. He took today off of school so that he could be with Steve. That was… Steve didn't have words. Steve didn't ask him to do that. He would never demand that of him, that was a _lot_ to ask.

And, what's more exasperating, Tony didn't even mention it to Steve until this morning! Steve had been packing his backpack with essential materials for today's results when Tony started helping him pack and said, 'Hey, by the way, Imma be there for you today, man,' as if it were the _simplest_ thing in the world. Steve was appalled_. _And grateful. It wasn't fair what Tony and Bucky were doing for him, he didn't do anything to deserve it, but he was grateful.

What really wasn't fair, though, was the _waiting._

As Steve waited, he sat on a bench in the nurse's hallway, seated with Bucky on his right and Tony on his left. Tony was engaged in a video game on his phone. He had earbuds in, but they were turned up far too loud; Steve and Bucky could hear everything. Bucky was reading something off of his phone and having some light talk with Steve, which Steve appreciated.

Considering, though, that the waiting stretched on for hours, it was neither unexpected nor surprising that the conversation deepened. Bucky eventually addressed the elephant in the room. Which, in a strange way, did not upset Steve. It allowed him to accept that none of them were just _ignoring_ what was about to happen.

"So," Bucky started in his deep, deep Brooklyn dialect, "when my aunt was asked about cancer, they asked her what they call The Seven Questions. Do you mind if I-"

"-Do what you want, Buck," Steve replied.

"Only if you're comfortable," Bucky appeared to be genuinely afraid Steve would topple over and die at any second.

Steve placed a hand on Bucky's knee, in an effort to steady him (and himself, too.) He nodded, "I am."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Um…" Bucky avoided eye contact, "have you had changes in your bladder or bowel habits?"

"Damn it, Buck. You sound like a robot," Steve laughed.

Bucky let out a sigh, smiling and shaking his head a bit. He laughed a little before rephrasing his question, "Any differences in your piss or shit?"

"Liquid crap as always, my friend."

"Do you bleed in places?"

"Only when I'm on my period."

They shared a brief smile. It was so weird. They were joking about what could possibly predetermine Steve's early death. But they were enjoying it and relishing in each other's company.

"Eat more chocolate," Bucky ordered, "Any weird warts or lumps? Moles, even?"

"Only my roommate."

At the sentence, Tony popped out an earbud, "Hm? Did you call me?"

The Brooklyn boys shared a private smile.

"Do you have any sores?" Bucky went on.

"Only the hickey I gave him last night," Tony cut in, wanting to get center stage of the attention. Steve thought it was hilarious, but Bucky was far less amused. He looked ready to kill Tony, or at least do him some serious, serious damage.

There was a beat.

Tony put his hands up in defense, "Hey, man! I'm only kidding!"

Bucky was still staring.

"He's kidding, Buck," Steve said, doing his best to hide his smile. Despite the fact that Steve thought it was die-hard hilarious, the room maintained an awkward tension to it. That really only made Steve find it funnier.

Bucky readjusted his position in his seat to recover. He cleared his throat as he moved conversation right along, "So when's Miss Sarah comin'?"

Steve stopped smiling, "My mama?"

"Yeah. She called me today. Said she would come here and support ya."

"Mama never told me that."

"..."

"..."

"...maybe she wanted to surprise ya."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Shortly afterward, the nurse's door opened and a woman stepped out. But it wasn't Sarah Rogers. It was the nurse. She was neither tall nor thin, yet very beautiful, and held her head up well. The nurse carried in her hands a clipboard, though she didn't look at it. Her expression reminded Steve of Natasha, soulless and remote.

At her entrance, Bucky instinctively moved to put his arm around Steve's shoulder, and Tony somehow sobered up quickly.

"Well, Mr. Rogers," the nurse said, "we got your results back."

This was it, wasn't it? This was the moment of truth. A life or death situation approached him written in black ink on a shitty clipboard in a school hallway. This was, without a doubt, the most frightening moment of Steve's young life.

The nurse's emotionless mask broke, "Mr. Rogers, we are very happy to report that you tested negative for cancer in all of our tests."

Steve's stomach caved inwards and his chest fell over his torso. He crumpled up like a little, tiny ball on that bench, hugging and squeezing his knees. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and followed that up by gasping desperately for more and more breaths.

At the sound of the news, Tony and Bucky relaxed too. Bucky's grip on Steve's shoulders softened instantly, and he moved to comfort Steve in his desperate state. Tony just took a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts, and then he grabbed his phone, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and proceeded to the class he was supposed to be in while playing a game on his phone on the walk down the hall.

For Steve it was not so simple. For Steve it was _catharsis._

All in a single moment Steve let himself collapse into Bucky's arms. He fell like a fainting woman and then crumpled into a ball like a child. Suddenly clinging to Bucky all the more fervently now, Steve let himself release breath he didn't know he was holding. This of course was followed by rapid, uneven, desperate inhales for breath. He let himself press into Bucky, who by now was stroking his backside tenderly in an act of compassion, and could feel the rise and fall of his diaphragm against Bucky's stomach.

He couldn't understand why he was behaving this way. He was relieved, wasn't he? He was _saved. _But for whatever reason it seemed as though the intensity of his saving was too much for him at the moment. It overwhelmed him.

It didn't seem to bother Bucky. He just continued to stroke his back. It was so comforting. It was so genuine and empathetic that Steve didn't even notice how his mother didn't show up. Not that he would have cared.

* * *

"First off, let me start by saying that I am entirely relieved and happy for you since you tested negative for cancer."

"Thank you, sir."

"Believe me, I want to throw a potluck together to celebrate that alone, but since I'm your counselor I am bound," Phil Coulson sighed and shook his head, "I am really, really bound. I have to just do what they tell me to do and shut up."

"I've been there before," Steve mused in return.

Coulson released a small, sad smile, "So you understand, then."

It was clear that he didn't need a response from Steve. They shared a silence together, and that was enough of a powerful moment.

Coulson blew air out of his mouth, agitated and distracted, as he flipped through the pages of the agenda in his hands. He and Steve were seated at his desk, Steve across from him. Phil Coulson's office was much smaller than any classroom Steve had been in at the school thus far. It was minimally decorated, which Steve had to admit he appreciated, and there were several books lined up unordered on a bookshelf. Phil Coulson almost seemed cramped in the office. He wasn't a large man, in fact he was quite slender compared to other men his age, but to Steve, he looked too big for the small office. It was sort of funny for Steve, comparing his counselor to the office. It gave him some sort of comfort.

"So my job is to keep you on track," Phil said, prying Steve from his thoughts, "Because you were just diagnosed with cachexia, you have a lot of meetings with your doctors within the next few months, I am going to schedule them in a way that works best for you, okay? You're in charge here, sounds good?"

"Sure."

"Terrific. And, I'm also going to schedule you for some recreational activities, either before or after school. I'll give you a list of classes to choose from sometime later, okay?"

"What recreational activities?"

"Well, a lot of the students here play on sports teams, or in bands, or take art classes, or things like that. Helps them adjust, you know? I think it would do you good to interact with your peers and do something you enjoy, especially with all you have on your plate right now."

"..."

"Figuratively. What you figuratively have on your plate right now."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Phil Coulson was getting uncomfortable, Steve could tell. From what Steve could decipher, he was genuinely trying to make a good impression and be friendly. He almost felt bad for being so terse with Coulson, but at the same time, Coulson legitimately just told Steve that _Steve_ was in charge, not Phil Coulson. Maybe it would do them both a favor if Steve continued to be domineering.

"Okay," Coulson continued, "I will get you that list of classes sometime later."

Then, Coulson flipped through the pages on his desk until he found the one he was looking for, "We have a policy for students like you—students going through a lot of crap, I mean-"

Steve smiled.

"—that says you have to see your counselor once a week and check in. I know I'm not all that fun, but I will do my best to not annoy the crap out of you during these meetings, okay?"

Steve was starting to warm up to his guy, "What day and what time?"

"It's your call. As long as I see you for at least an hour a week. It doesn't even need to be all in one sitting. You could drop by fifteen minutes one day, fifteen minutes two days later, half an hour at the end of the week, I really don't care. It's what's best for you. As long as it's within my work hours."

"Great."

"Absolutely," Coulson said, "Just please make sure you come in for an hour a week. My boss takes away by toilet privileges if students diss on me."

Steve was really starting to like Phil Coulson. He could understand now why he was appointed a guidance counselor. He was just so approachable.

"Sure thing."

"Hooray. Okay, one last thing and then you can leave and forget everything I was supposed to be teaching you," Phil Coulson handed Steve a roster sheet and a pen. On the paper were several blank lines, and that was it.

"What's this?" Steve asked.

"On this roster, I want you to write down all the names of any people who you give permission to visit you while you're here. It's sort of a safety thing. Anyone from outside the school can only come in and visit if their name is on this list and we have an approved background check on them."

"But my friend was here earlier, he—"

"—It's okay, we get it. No one is in trouble. It was a fault on the school's part, since you didn't know about the sheet yet. That's our bad. I'll give you a moment to write down the names," he said, and then went on to signing the mountainous heap of paper on his desk.

Steve didn't hesitate to write down Bucky's name.

But then he paused. He thought back to his mother.

His mother, who was supposed to show, but didn't. His mother who put him here in the first place.

Steve handed the paper back to Phil Coulson.

Coulson blinked, "That's all? One person?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to warn you, Steve. Once you turn in this roster, it's a really long and difficult process to edit it to admit more or less people. Are you sure you're satisfied with this?"

"Absolutely," Steve said, repeating the word Coulson had used moments earlier.

"Okay then," Coulson breathed. He filed the roster in a folder on his desk. He gave Steve a firm handshake, "Have a nice day."

"You do the same," Steve said as he headed out.

When he left the office, he could see Bucky waiting for him at the end of the hall. He looked like a sad dog, waiting for his owner to return from work. Seeing the way Bucky looked to him, with those big, spirited eyes, for the first time in a long time, Steve felt like he had some power. He had the power to choose a recreational activity. He had the power to deny his mother the privilege of seeing him. Phil Coulson gave him that power.


	10. Bad Days

"Sorry again you had to take a day off work," Steve muttered as he walked Bucky toward the door. Steve wasn't one to be sorry, normally. But Bucky had to close the auto repair shop for a day and drive a few hours down heavily trafficked roads all just to hear that Steve was, remarkably, cancer free. Steve couldn't help but feel pretty guilty his best friend had to go through that.

Bucky was nonchalant, "Dude, it's fine. I really don't mind."

He gave Steve a sweet slap on the back of his neck, "You're more important than any rusty old lemon car will ever be."

Steve smirked, "More important than a Volvo? Or a Bugatti?"

Bucky feigned frowning, "No… I'd choose the Bugatti over you."

"Fair enough. I would too."

As they approached the door, Steve stopped in the hallway. Bucky went to open the door, but for some reason, Steve was glued to the floor.

It just occurred to him. Steve could leave. No one was watching them. It was just the two of them in the hallway. Steve could just leave and run home with Bucky and go back to living his life. Steve could be free.

Bucky must have seen that Steve was in deep thought, "You okay, Stevie?"

"..."

"Stevie…?"

Steve swallowed, "Yep. I'm good."

Bucky, at this point, was trying to conceal his worry. Steve knew him well enough to notice this, but Bucky nonetheless tried. He tried to keep his jaw in place and his expression blank, but his jaw was clenched far too tight for him to be calm, and his eyes alone displayed more worry that's Bucky's face ever could. Bucky took a stabilizing breath before he said, "I think this place is changing you Steve. What happened to the scrappy fighting kid from Brooklyn?"

Steve had to pry his gaze from the door, ignoring his longing to run outside to freedom. He forced a shrug, "Don't know. Guess he's a rule follower now."

"Why?"

"...maybe because he's starting to believe what they're telling him."

To that, Bucky had no response. They embraced and then went their separate ways.

* * *

It had to have been dinner time now. Steve knew because his stomach was aching in emptiness.

When he arrived at the courtyard area, which was just outside the cafeteria, he could see the school population assembled at different tables, inside and outside, eating dinner together in a festive display. They made it look so easy. But who was Steve kidding? He knew all of them were struggling.

Except for maybe Tony.

Where was Tony?

As if on cue, Tony waved Steve over. He was seated at a table outdoors. And for the first time, Steve realized, Tony was sitting by himself. He didn't seem to be affected by this, though. He wore the biggest, goofiest smile on his face.

Steve waved back and took a seat across the table from Tony.

"Hey," he greeted, "what's up?"

"Not much," Tony replied, "Just finished lunch. Menu today is baked potato bar. Weirdest combination ever."

Steve scrunched up his nose, "That sounds like the kind of food they served at my school."

"I wouldn't know," Tony smirked, "I went to a private school before I came here."

Steve rolled his eyes, "That makes no difference. School is school."

"I guess," Tony shrugged. There was something _off_ about him today. Steve just couldn't put his finger on it.

"So how's your boyfriend?" Tony asked out of the blue.

"Who?"

"That dude I met at your cancer screening? Tall guy? Brooklyn accent? Long brown hair?"

Steve went red, "Bucky is not my boyfriend."

"Hey, I don't judge!"

"He's not!"

"Fine fine fine," Tony dismissed, waving his hand, "Well what was he here for? I saw him earlier."

"We were just spending some time together. He dropped in to check on my after the screening yesterday."

"That was nice of him."

"Yeah. Really."

"Just a second," Tony said, holding up one finger. Then he stood up and waltzed into the middle of the courtyard like a prince. Everyone was staring at him. He certainly enjoyed the attention, he had a large smile on his face, and he raised his hands in the air in a dramatic gesture.

Steve never would have seen it coming.

Tony then took his first two fingers on his right hand and shoved them down his throat.

The vomit he produced cascaded down in lumps and puddles of disgusting yellow and brown. The smell was atrocious. Students shrieked and ran off, surprised and confused but all happened at once and without warning. Tony was standing in the middle of the courtyard, purging.

It only took two seconds for a storm of administrators and resource officers to see what Tony was doing. As if they were cops and Tony a robber, the officers lunged for him and tackled him to the ground, his face smearing against his own vomit and the concrete beneath it.

Tony didn't even try to defend himself, he let the administrators restrain him.

The scene reminded Steve of Brooklyn's bad side all too much. He was watching the whole thing in shock, mouth literally hanging open, as they walked Tony off to the nurse's office.

"Dear God, what has he done?" Steve muttered, not realizing he was talking aloud.

"That's Tony for you."

Steve jolted in his seat a bit. He hadn't known there was someone beside him. Looking closer, Steve recognized that this guy was Tony's other friend, Wanda's twin, Pietro.

He worse silver sunglasses on his forehead, instead of wearing them over his eyes, which Steve found peculiar. His entire outfit for that matter, Steve found strange. Mismatched colors and patterns from head to toe. Yet, Pietro had a proud smirk on his face. Either he was proud of being a nonconformist or he was too stupid to realize just how ridiculous he was dressed.

Pietro was holding his lunch tray in his hands, shaking his head in disappointment, "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I swear. It's never a dull moment with Tony Stark, is it?"

Steve stammered a bit, "He...He does this a lot?"

"Not as much as he used to," Pietro shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, "He was doing a lot better recently. Guess everyone has bad days."

Pietro narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Steve's contentless table in front of him, "You having a bad day, too?"

"What?"

"You're not eating lunch."

"Oh. No. I just got here."

"Uh huh," Pietro said. Steve knew from the tone in his voice that Pietro didn't believe him.

"I'm serious," Steve defended, "I would never miss a meal."

Now Pietro definitely disbelieved him. Pietro squinted his face in disgust, observing Steve's thinning face, and collarbone protruding his chest.

"Uh huh," he said, a little sadly, "I'm gonna… I'm gonna go eat with my sister."

"I'm not stopping you."

"...Good."

"Good."

"...Okay."

"Okay."

"...Bye."

"Bye."

Despite saying their goodbyes, neither one of them moved. Pietro continued awkwardly standing there, looking down at Steve. The expression on his face Steve couldn't quite name. It looked like Pietro _wanted _something from Steve. Something important. Not the kind of needy, pathetic wanting, but a genuine yearning for something. There was an enchanting look in his eyes.

Steve would have none of it. Not after _that _first impression. He made the move to leave, walking off to the cafeteria to claim his meal. He would need a full stomach to support him when he talks to Tony later.

* * *

You know those movies? The one where the hero finally confronts the evil villain in his lair and the villain is sitting there in his chair, stroking a cat, just waiting?

That's what it was like for Tony and Steve that day.

Except, Steve wasn't evil. He wasn't stroking a cat either. He sat at the edge of his bed, waiting for Tony to come home.

Similarly, Tony wasn't the hero. He was… Steve didn't know. Tony was just this kid who forced himself to throw up in front of everyone today. And he still claims he's not bulimic.

That was not a normal thing to do. Steve was going to get down to the bottom of it.

It took a lot longer for tony to get to the dorm than Steve expected. He was waiting through both health class and P.E. Class before there was the familiar click of the key unlocking the door knob from the other side.

When Tony entered, he demonstrated no physicality of ever throwing up. He was quick and jittery and random in his movements, as always. And he seemed strangely optimistic. He smiled at Steve as he greeted him, as if nothing had happened today at lunch.

"¿Qué paso?" he asked.

"You know what's paso," Steve retorted.

Tony pursed his lips, "Sorry to break it to you but I don't think that's proper Spanglish grammar."

"Tony, I'd like to talk about what happened today at lunch."

Tony took a beat, "What happened at… _Oh! _That! I remember now. Sure. Okay."

He hopped on his own bed, opposite Steve, and crossed his legs. He looked like a child sitting on a rug in kindergarten.

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

Steve couldn't help but be at least a little offended that Tony was feigning innocence, "Um, maybe the fact that you made yourself vomit in the courtyard today?"

"The technical term is 'purge.'"

"What?"

"For disordered eaters, we say 'purge' instead of 'vomit' or 'puke,'" Tony said matter-of-factly, "Which is a shame because I really like the word 'puke.' It's just such a _disgusting _sound. Like _p-yooouuuu-kah_," he sounded it out, "Puke. It's revolting. Like 'moist.' Don't you love drawing out the word 'moist?' It makes people so uncomfortable!"

"Tony!"

"What?"

"I'm seriously worried," Steve admitted. He had tried to deliver the line nonchalantly, but his voice broke a little at the end, making him sound unsure and really meek.

Tony noticed this, of course. And he softened a bit.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay," Steve replied, "Just tell me what happened."

Tony took a deep breath, "Okay, I know what you're thinking. But I am _not _bulimic—"

Steve opened his mouth to say something in refusal, but Tony waved his hands in the air manically and cut him off.

"—_Shut up! _Let me finish! Thank you! 'Preciate it!" He recomposed himself, "Like I told you the other day. I am not bulimic. I just throw up sometimes to convince The Man to let me stay here. I need to stay to watch out for the boys."

"The boys."

"Pepper, Wanda, and Pietro."

"Two thirds of that population are female."

"Yeah, well to me, they're my boys," tong defended, "They're my clique, my gang, my mafia, whatever you want to call them."

"Your 'friends,' maybe?"

Tony smiled, "That's such a conformist word. I like to be a little imaginative."

"Ah. I see," Steve smiled back.

"Just so you know, Steve, I consider you one of the boys."

Steve pretended he didn't hear Tony's last comment; "Tell me why you purged today."

For a split second, Tony's confidence faltered. It happened so quickly, Steve almost didn't see it. But it happened. And Steve saw it. He saw Tony struggle in himself for the first time.

Steve could see how much it hurt Tony to speak, "Pepper had a bad day… And… I don't know, I guess I was just worried she would be held back or get in trouble or something. I don't know. I panicked. I… I don't want to be without her…"

Tony was a bit riled up at this point, Steve could see that clearly. So he remained quiet and let Tony take a moment to compose himself. Within that moment, Steve stopped to contemplate. He frowned.

"Tony," he pressed, when he felt that his roommate may be ready to talk once more, "Why would you do something so destructive to yourself just because your girlfriend was being moody? That wouldn't hold her back. Everyone has bad days. That doesn't mean they'll get in trouble at school."

Tony, a little more confident than he was a moment ago, stared at Steve like his eyeballs rolled out of his head, "Don't you know? 'Bad day" is code."

"Code?"

"It means that you had a fall-back day. On your recovery," Tony took a moment to let that sink in.

Steve suddenly felt a wave of embarrasment hit him. Not just embarrasment, but _guilt_ as well. Earlier today, at lunch, Pietro had asked Steve if he was having a bad day. Steve hadn't realized that Pietro was offering not sympathy, but _empathy._ He had been an absolute fool to not take it.

Steve ducked his head between his shoulders, "Code, huh?"

"Yeah, code," Tony repeated.

There was a beat.

"Is Pepper doing okay?" Steve asked meekly.

Tony shrygged in a defeated sort of way. It was very out-of-character for him, "Don't know. She's having a bad day. She… I don't know. All of a sudden, she just couldn't finish her breakfast. She had been doing so well recently..."

He shrugged again.

Steve moved to sit by Tony's side on his bed, "Hey," he soothed, slinging an arm around his roommate, "She's going to be okay."

Honestly, Steve had no idea if Pepper was going to be okay. He knew about all the dangers she faced. He didn't know how far gone Pepper was. Anorexia was a dangerous, dangerous thing. Steve _knew._ Bucky, Natasha, and his mama preached it to him every night.

His mama...

Tony returned the embrace with a soft pat on Steve's shoulder, "Thanks."

"Any time."

"Yeah."

"...Hey Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"How much does Pepper weigh?"

"...One hundred six pounds."

"...And how tall is she?"

"Five foot seven."

"...Shit."

"Yeah. She's doing better though."

"Good to hear."

"Yeah."

"...Hey Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"No more purging. Okay?"

"Steve, I can't just-"

"I'm serious. That scared me today."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...Only if you don't secretly binge anymore."

"I don't know what you're talking ab-"

"-Yes you do. Shut up. Are we making a deal or what?"

"...Deal."

It was strange the way that night was spent afterwards. Neither of them said a word more. They were enveloped in complete and total silence. And yet Steve did not hear his phone ringing, his mother calling him from cities away. They fell asleep in silence, and for once, comfort.


	11. Self Loathing is a Silly Little Thing

Tony had been right. It was impossible to stay for only two months.

Steve has now been in the facility for nine weeks, and the end of the school's year was right around the corner. One would think that once summer break stared, the students could go home and reconnect with their families. But in reality, going home was a privilege that needed to be earned.

In order to go home over the summer break, each student had to be at a certain weight. Most students had to gain a few pounds, others had to lose some. Not only that but once they were home, students had to continue their strict diet plans. Furthermore, their family members had to vouch for them! They had to sign an agreement to keep their sickly children accountable for sustaining their boarding school regime.

When Tony explained all of this to Steve, Steve had thought it was a joke. He actually laughed. It wasn't until there was an announcement about scheduled weighing check-ins that Steve began to believe him. And he didn't like it.

Steve could understand why this decision was in place, of course. Anyone could. But he couldn't help but be unhappy with it. Going against The Man was in his blood, and in his heart. No matter how right the system seemed, Steve just couldn't accept it.

His unhappiness could be because he had a difficult past nine weeks.

A really difficult past nine weeks.

Tony wasn't kidding when he told Steve that he was only permitted to eat what he wants for the first few days. After that, Steve was given a strict diet regime. Administrators always stood in the courtyard and dining hall to ensure that each student ate their portions without resistance. Steve didn't know what would happen if one were to resist, but he could only guess, after the way Tony was tackled after he purged in the courtyard, that punishments were to follow.

Steve hated the man (or woman, maybe. Steve has actually never met whom) who constructed his diet plan. This person, whoever it was, like everyone else, believes with his heart and soul that Steve is severely anorexic. For that reason, Steve's diet plans were absurd.

They must have thought that if they started Steve off with tiny morsels of proportions, he would warm up to eating more. So for a solid two weeks, Steve ate less than 600 calories a day. It was absolute torture. He fainted three times. He was so constantly dizzy and hungry that he couldn't bring himself to go to class. He just lay on his bed in pure misery.

The only upside was that Steve didn't have diarrhea for two weeks. But that's because he had practically no food in his system for days. It was a miracle he didn't drop down dead.

Gradually, his proportions grew a little larger. They were still nothing compared to what he used to eat back at home. But he wasn't complaining. At least he was being fed.

He was on a new medication for his cachexia. He hasn't noticed any changes in his body after taking the pill, besides feeling very sleepy, but the doctor on campus told him that all improvements, even subtle improvements, are monumental.

That seemed to be the catch phrase for letting students off for the summer. All improvements, even subtle improvements, are monumental.

In order to return home for the summer, Steve had to be 105 pounds. He didn't think that would be that difficult to reach. After all, he came here weighing only 98 pounds. Since he arrived, he's been eating all he was told to eat, and he was working with Tony and Pietro on gaining some muscle on his own time. He was pretty confident that he was going to get home and see Bucky and his mama again. His birthday was around the corner, and he was looking forward to spending it at home.

Tony had to lose ten pounds to go home. It wasn't that he was fat. To Steve, he still looked like a movie star, though that might just be the designer clothes. Tony didn't complain though. He just wanted to go home so he could get back to his robots, cars, and all those sort of millionaire things. Steve was actually impressed that Tony was going along with losing ten pounds so willingly. He had never before shown any signs of being a committed person. But he stuck with it, to everyone's surprise.

Secretly, Tony already weighed himself. Once late at night, he snuck out after curfew and weighed himself in the doctor's office (since scales were forbidden from being in a student's dorm.) He was only curious. He wanted an excuse to rebel and sneak out. Tony actually already lost twelve pounds. He was home free. Tony was so excited that night that he and Steve celebrated by binging Disney plus for a twelve-hour all-nighter. It was one of the more happy experiences Steve has had here.

Wanda had to gain another seven pounds, and Pietro had to gain twelve. As for Pepper, she had reached a state of extreme hunger, so she was given the option of going home, regardless of weight gain, as long as she stuck with eating constantly throughout the day and staying only a little active. Of course, she accepted.

With that in mind, everyone did their best to reach their goals as fast as possible—but without hurting themselves; after all, that's what landed them here in the first place. It was the day of the weigh-in that Steve realized just how test he was to go home for the summer.

"Bro, you look like you're about to faceplant into your breakfast," Tony remarked that same morning. He smirked, apparently noticing how exhausted Steve was on the other side of the table. The gang was together, eating breakfast, as normal. The only difference was everyone's determination to finish their meals, considering the weigh-in later that day.

Steve blinked lazily, "Dude. You _know _what my meds are doin'..."

Steve let the end of his sentence drop off and his words slur. He found in recent days that his cachexia medicine had extreme drowsiness as a side effect. It was pretty irritating how sleepy he's been lately. But his diarrhea was far less common, so it was all worth it in the end. Who was he to complain? He could do this all day.

Wanda played with scrambled eggs with her fork as she smiled at Steve thoughtfully, "Have you talked to your doctor about that?"

Steve stifled a yawn, leaning his head on his hand, "My doctor doesn't care about me."

Tony clapped his hand down on the table, "Yo. _My_ doctor is the fucking GOAT. He still gives my lollipops."

Pepper wrinkled her nose as she smiled, a trait so endearing and charming, "Lollipops, Tony?"

"Yes ma'am! The root beer ones are so _good _dammit!" he clapped his hand down on the table even harder.

"Have you taken your pills today, Tony?" the entire group asked simultaneously. In response, Tony grumbled annoyedly, shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled away to the nurse's table to get his ADHD medication.

Steve let his eyes follow Tony, and let his gaze accidentally drift to the red-haired psychologist in the back of the kitchen. It was Natasha. He noticed by the way Natasha was staring at him that she must have been trying to get his attention for a while now.

He excused himself to his table partners and then approached her at the back of the cafeteria.

"You know, when a teacher stares at a student these days, a couple uncomfortable questions are sure to be asked about you," Steve sassed, smirking. He hoped the joke would land because he wanted Natasha to smile. Ever since he had that confrontation with her bear the start of his enrollment, and then the embarrassing crying session he had in front of her shortly afterwards, things have been sealed between the two of them. And that really sucked. It was a problem for the both of them, because as much as Steve wanted comfort from the friend he grew up with, Natasha was legally bound to having a strictly professional relationship with him and nothing more. It was tough to communicate.

Of course the joke went right over Natasha's head, "I implied nothing scandalous by simply looking at you Steve. I was trying to get your attention."

"I know," Steve shiver his hands into his pockets, his all too loose pockets, "What is it?"

"I just wanted to," Natasha's voice wavered a bit at the end. She cleared her throat, regaining a sense of stern dignity, "I wanted to check in with you today. With the weigh-in later and all. How are you feeling?"

"I'm excited."

"I'd say so," Natasha said, a smile hiding behind her silky voice, "You look awake for the first time since you've been taking your medication."

"Thanks, I'm feeling a lot better," Steve admitted with a sigh of relief.

"Excited for your birthday coming up?"

Steve was about to answer, but then caught himself. It occurred to him that it was not common for Natasha to engage in casual conversation. She was never one to dilly dally or waste time.

He raised an eyebrow, "Natasha, what are you up to? Do you want to talk about something important?"

This time, she didn't dare to hesitate, "I just wanted to tell you that if you don't pass the weigh-in, you are okay. You're on the road to recovery, and that takes time. You are okay."

Steve's eyes narrowed, "You don't think I've done it… do you?"

Natasha remained stone-like.

Steve cleared his throat, a pang of sadness welling up inside of him, "I mean to say… you don't believe that I put on the required weight. You think I–I–"

"–Don't get all worked up now," Natasha sliced in, "I never said that. I just told you that you are recovering," she paused before adding, "And you're recovering greatly. You have shown very little resistance and I am very thankful for that. I know that's not in your typical Brooklyn blood."

She ended with a joke. She must have been replicating what Steve tried to do earlier, to break the tension. And, Natasha being Natasha, she absolutely succeeded in making Steve feel at least a little bit better.

He exhaled slowly to calm down. That was a truck he learned here at school. They have all the students attend mindfulness sessions to negotiate stress and sadness with breathing and meditation, as well as other activities like exercising healthily, coloring, journaling, and other hobbies. It sounds dumb in theory, especially to Steve, but it's actually been helpful. Steve was an artist, after all, and he loved how he learned to release stress and his disordered eating thoughts in his with the breathing sessions, he eventually learned to breathe deeply without getting dizzy; that was something new for him.

As he exhaled, he thought of how grateful he was that he could actually exhale without getting vertigo. It brought a smile to his face.

"Thanks, Nat," he said.

"Good luck today. Now go play with your friends," she shoed him off with a graceful hand gesture, and he scuttled away willingly to his table.

Not to his surprise whatsoever, Tony was rambling on about sex.

* * *

The weigh-in could only be compared to a line for airport security clearance. All students were lined up, rather miserably, and checked from head to toe by admin—Steve didn't know what for exactly, but he assumed they were checking for anything of significant weight that may alter the reading on the scale, as well as any medication that could influence similar results. But that was just a theory. He really had no idea why the security was so tight. Maybe someone was crazy enough to bring a gun and shoot up the place.

The weigh-in was also similar to an airport security clearance because this one event was the end all or be all of the journey. All of them had a place they desperately wanted to go. They wanted to go home. And this one event was what determined if they could see their families and enjoy a happy, healthy summer, or remain locked in a prison with little outside contact.

The students were lined up along a hallway, at the end of the line a doctor's office and a locked door. The students were required to be dressed in only undergarments during the weigh in, because clothes often changed to true read of the scale, but nudity was something absolutely illegal in the school system. For that reason, everything was done individually. Each student stood in line dressed, entered the office with the doctor, stripped down into underwear, measured, and then released. For something so simple, it took an exceedingly long time since every student took about fifteen minutes. That's why it took Steve, Tony, and Tony's friends two hours before they were at the end of the line.

Wanda was the first out of all of them to be weighed. Steve didn't know how much she needed to weigh exactly, he only knew she needed to have gained seven pounds. He actually felt pretty scared for her, watching her disappear behind that door. He bit his lips.

Pietro looked nervous as well, as if he were Tony without his ADHD meds, he bounced back on forth between his two feet.

It only took ten minutes before Wanda stepped out. Her hands were clasped behind her back rather timidly.

Pietro looked at his twin with big puppy dog eyes, "Well, sis…?"

"..I…"

Steve felt his heart drop.

And then Wanda smiled, her huge green eyes twinkling like dew drops on summer leaves, "I've put on _eleven_. I weigh 115 pounds!"

With that one exclamation came an overwhelming wave of encouragement for Steve. He all of a sudden felt like he might be able to accomplish this obstacle ahead of him dead on. Screw Natasha's mothering! Putting on weight wasn't so difficult after all!

Pietro was next, and his result read that he put on exactly twelve pounds. He was not hesitant to flaunt it.

By the time Pietro was finished, however, the doctors were beginning to get antsy. It was far past their scheduled lunch time, and it seemed as though the doctors were just as scared of missing a meal as the students. They decided they would weigh in just one more student and then take an hour long lunch break before continuing their weigh-ins.

That one student just happened to be Steve.

He felt his heart skip a beat with excitement when he heard his name called from the doctor within the private room. Tony winked at him, and Steve gave him a thumbs up in response. This was going to be a day he would never forget, the wonderful day he was going to run home for the summer.

The doctor was less enthusiastic, his eyes were narrow and soulless as he squinted at the roster in his hands. Steve guessed the doctor forgot to wear his glasses today by the way he squinted so profoundly. He reminded Steve of the sucky doctor in the "just okay is not okay" commercial.

"Steven Grant Rogers?" the doctor questioned with a raspy voice that corroborated his old age.

"Yes sir."

"Step on the scale please."

"Yes sir," Steve said, his voice breaking a bit. He tried to conceal the absolute thrill boiling up inside of him, but his wavering voice must have revealed it. He noticed his hands and knees were trembling a bit as he began to undress.

And for the first time in his life, letting someone else see his body was not entirely terrible. He never let anyone see his body. In the dorm room, he would move to change in the bathroom so that Tony would not see him. Back home too, he spared his body from Bucky's sight. Even Steve's mama has never seen his body since he was a child. Steve was just always so ashamed. But this… This is an entire _leap_ forward.

The emotion Steve experienced when he saw the reading of the scale was indescribable by words. It was so raw and strong that he knew he would never forget it.

* * *

"Steve!" Tony cheered as soon as the door opened. While everyone else had gone to lunch, Tony was the only one who waited behind for Steve's weigh-in to be completed. He was sitting on a bench just opposite the door, legs crossed over his lap, arms spread wide in a happy gesture. His smile was infinitely joyful, "How'd it go, dude?"

Steve's hands were still shaking with the excitement from earlier. It took a lot of strength for Steve to be able to compose himself and sit down on the floor in front of Tony, calmly and collectively.

"Steve," Tony repeated, not satisfied with his roommate's delayed response, "How much did you weigh?"

"Ninety five pounds."

The heartbreak in Tony's eyes was so emininet that the expression alone broke Steve's heart as well.

"What? I… I don't understand-"

"-I weigh ninety five pounds. I lost three since I got here."

"Oh my god…"

Steve did not respond.

"Oh my god, Steve, I'm… I'm so sorry, Steve. I didn't realize-"

"-Don't worry about it," Steve said. He stood up from his seated position, a little too quickly. He made himself dizzy but he started exiting anyway, "Just enjoy your summer vacation for me."

* * *

Steve had been brooding for three hours straight before he heard the familiar sound of Tony's keys unlocking the dorm room from the other side. There was something different, though, about the quality of the keys' sound. Tony was moving slower, more robotically.

When he finally opened the door he didn't move any closer, he stayed standing still in the door frame. The light from the hallway came cascading in over his silhouette, which was dark like the dorm room.

When Steve realized that Tony wasn't going to enter, he sat up in his bed, hugging his pillow against his chest, and squinted through the light to look Tony in the eye.

"What are you doing, Tony?" he asked.

"Staying here for the summer."

Steve felt his heart drop down into his stomach, "What the fuck did you just say?"

"I'm staying here for the summer. With you," Tony said. Steve could now make out a hint of a smile on his face, but it wasn't a real smile. He spoke monotonously, sadly, but he was still trying to smile. That made Steve's veins go ice cold.

"Tony!" Steve exclaimed, already as riled up as he was earlier this morning, "Wha-What? You already lost twelve pounds, what did you-"

"-Just gained a little back," he forced a shrug, "That's all."

Steve was now able to start piecing everything together inside his head. He began to understand; tears welled in his eyes when he admitted, "You binged. For me."

Tony shrugged again, "It would have been boring at my house anyway."

In all his life Steve has never felt so guilty. Even compared to Bucky making sacrifices for him, or his mama crying over the grocery bill, Tony relinquishing his one break of torture just to look after Steve was the most despicable thing Steve could have ever done. He was an asshole. Steve was an absolute _asshole!_ He was a needy little baby who couldn't manage to get his own shit together, so he drags everyone down with him.

Steve felt like a black hole. He sucked the life out of everyone he loved and left them malformed, exhausted, depressed, and spiritless. He was an unknown, unseen, little device that managed to ruin everything.

Steve remembered just how much he hated himself.


	12. Finale

Summer at an eating disorder treatment facility sucked, and Steve knew for a fact that he wasn't the only one who felt this way. With each passing day, he became more and more aware of his environment, and just how dreadful it was. It was one of the first days of summer that Steve finally took the time to look at the place, really _look_ at it. Honestly? He was not impressed.

The facility looked as if it were a beige prison. The entire thing was just a giant beige block of painted brick, the paint chipping off in some places from weather and age. There were few windows from the front side, and only one door. The residential dorms could only be accessed from the main building, and at least the dorms had a little more personality. Each floor had a different color as a theme. Everything from the carpets, to the curtains, to the doors, and even the wall liners adorned the color with a certain happy acceptance. It was wonderful in a strange sort of way how a simple color could make everything a little easier. In fact, rather than saying, 'My room is on the third floor,' students would say 'my room is on the green floor.' Though, in the summer, there were so few students that everyone was moved to the pink floor. Boys and girls.

Another oddity Steve noticed was the population at the school. The boys and girls. There were far more girls than boys. The girls must have outnumbered the boys five to one. And that was considering the normal school population. With the summer population, the girls must have outnumbered them eight to one.

"It's not 'cause girls get eating disorders more than guys," Tony explained to Steve one day, "It's 'cause they're not tough like guys."

"What do you mean?" Steve wasn't quite sure what Tony meant.

"I mean–… Hm. What _do_ I mean? Let's think. Okay. Um. I mean it's like sexual abuse. It happens to guys just as much as it does girls, but girls complain about it more than guys so they get help. The guys just sorta try to shrug it off."

"But sexual abuse is a serious thing, Tony. You can't joke like that."

"I'm not joking. And eating disorders are serious, too."

For whatever reason, that really frightened Steve. He tried not to think about it; but that was too difficult to accomplish. It plagued his mind, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Just about the only thing he _could_ do was complain. Or at least, pretend to complain. Have something to be angry about at least kept Steve distracted and Tony content. They rambled on complaining about the most trivial of things, things that didn't really bother Steve; he pretended they did just so he could keep his mind occupied. He and Tony spent their days throwing rocks at the back wall of the school and watching cars go by from behind the courtyard fence.

Steve was surprised that the schedule was so loose in the summer. He and Tony never got in trouble for slacking off and avoiding classes. Most students didn't go to the classes anyway, it was a wonder why the teachers even bothered showing up for work.

"It's because they're waiting on the new summer counselor to arrive," Natasha explained to Tony and Steve one day when they asked about it. She was packing up her supplies for the summer, because she was one of the lucky ones who had permission to go home. With a white suitcase spread across her desk, she took great care and packing everything ever so precisely into the case.

"Summer counselor?" Steve asked, "Why do we need a summer counselor? Can't we just have you?"

"I have life to live," Natasha snapped back in her forever monotonous tone.

"Well so do we, but you don't see us shipping out," Tony quipped.

"Watch it, Stark," Natasha snapped.

"Yes ma'am."

"But why do we need a summer counselor?" Steve pressed.

"He's supposed to be a lot younger. Couldn't be a day over twenty five. Probably younger than that, actually. I think the goal of bringing him in is for you two and the other students to form healthier relationships with your psychologists. Maybe you can actually get _healthier_," Natasha explained. Her suitcase was now full. Placing her hands on her hips, muscular arms akimbo, she gazed around her office for the last time of the summer. She was never one to be nostalgic, but Steve could see from the softened look in her eyes that she was going to miss this room, at least a little bit. Always the sharp dagger of a woman who never backed down from a fight, Steve couldn't help but be wonderfully surprised that a simple office room could release emotions from his friend.

"I'm going to miss you, Nat."

She almost smiled, "I'm going to miss you too, you crazy, stupid kid."

She zipped up her suitcase and gently placed it on the floor. Steve knee it had to be at least fifty pounds, but she was able to carry it with ease, as if it were a feather.

"I'll look after Bucky for you. I'll visit your mama a few times," Natasha said as she started for the door.

"Bye," Steve said. It didn't seem right watching her go. She was the only adult there who brought him any sort of comfort. She was a piece of his childhood. Natasha now stood before him a grown woman. She had great dignity, and she had priorities to attend. Taking her white suitcase in one hand, she pressed her other to Steve's face. Her fingertips were rough with grit, but the palm of her hand was soft and warm.

Natasha wasn't one to smile. But her eyes certainly smiled in a sad sort of way when she said, "Goodbye. I'll see you in a few months."

* * *

The new counselor's name was Peter Parker. He was, in fact, younger than twenty five. He was only nineteen; he was Steve's age. He stood at 5'6 but still carried the body of a teenager. It was impossible for him, being so young, to be a professional counselor. He must only be in training. But those were only rumors Steve heard. He didn't know if they were true or not. No one could confirm the rumors, because no one had the chance to see him before class. He had yet to arrive on campus at all. Peter Parker may as well be an urban legend, the way the students were all passing and misinterpreting rumors about him.

When Steve brought this idea to Tony, they were sitting in the classroom (only because it was required of all students to at least meet Mr. Parker before skipping out on any classes). The eccentric heard Steve's theory, he interpreted it an entirely different way.

"That's great!" Tony said.

"Why?"

"Well, we can manipulate him of course. Like a substitute teacher."

"Now, when you say 'manipulate him…'"

"I mean we can probably convince him to let us do what we want. Maybe we can get out of some counseling sessions, or maybe even get out of the school!"

"I have a hard time believing we could do that. I don't think he's going to be an idiot."

"How about this," Tony pointed his finger, "We meet him today, make our opinions, then decide on pranking him or something."

"Sure," Steve said, smirking. He wasn't a malevolent person, but he could definitely sense the excitement Tony had to be a little rebellious. It's been too long since Steve was rebellious.

There was the familiar click of the doorknob turning from the other side of the classroom. Now, the classroom was designed to hold about twenty students, but it now carried the entire summer population; thirty one students. So it was considerably loud with rambunctious rambling and nonsensical mutter. But somehow, above the pointless cacophony, Steve was very clearly able to hear the doorknob. Everyone else must have noticed it too, because the classroom started to quiet down almost instantly.

Steve couldn't help but be surprised when he found the rumors about the summer counselor to be true.

Nineteen-year-old Peter Parker entered the classroom with nothing but a flimsy notebook in one hand and his phone in the other. He wore a simple t-shirt adorning some sort of math pun, and black sweatpants that looked a little too small on him. He gave a friendly wave as he took his seat at the teacher's desk; a seat that did not look like it belonged to him.

"'Sup, guys," said Peter, smiling, "I'm Peter Parker. Your friendly neighborhood counselor. You can call me whatever you want. Mr. Parker, Mr. Peter, Mr. P, just Peter, whatever you want. Just not 'sir.' Please don't call me 'sir,' that makes me feel weird. And old and gross. Or 'P.P.' Please don't call me 'P.P.'"

Tony leaned right up to Steve's ear and whispered, "I'm gonna call him P.P."

Peter Parker hadn't heard the whisper, and he went right on with his freestyle introduction, "So I'm not, like, a teacher or anything. Sorry if I gave you guys that impression. So don't worry, no grades or anything. I hate grades, too. I'm just, like I said, I'm just your friendly neighborhood counselor. I'm literally just here if you need to talk. And to help you get outta tough spots if I think you might need it."

Peter Parker said this genuinely. He was smiling, which almost gave the impression that his words were scripted, but Steve could tell that he meant what he was saying. He knew that they were struggling, and he was offering a friendly hand.

Steve started to wonder if he once had an eating disorder.

"So anyway," Peter Parker went on, "I know it's summer and you guys wanna relax, so I'm gonna go ahead and stop right here. All I wanted to do was let you know I'm here, I'm Peter Parker, and I'm a good listener. Also I'm studying for my masters degree in addictive behaviors and eating disorders, so like, I know what I'm doing when I talk to you guys. I promise I'm not untrustworthy."

There was a purposeful beat of blissful silence. Steve sort of liked it.

"Well, that's all for today. Go on, enjoy a summer day!" Peter Parker said, shooing students in the front row out of the classroom. The other students followed in suit, waving or giggling goodbye to the new summer counselor as they rushed out the door. Tony was in hot pursuit after them to get out of the classroom, he didn't notice Steve wasn't following him. He had to turn around and run back for him.

"Steve," he said, "C'mon, let's go. There's a whole world of opportunity outside of a classroom."

"Gimme just a sec," Steve said, rising.

"Dude, the hell are you doing?" Tony exclaimed.

"I just wanna meet Mr. Peter Parker," Steve admitted as he started to walk down the rows of desks towards the front of the classroom.

"God, you're such a goody-two-shoes," Tony rolled his eyes, "I'm gonna go FaceTime Pepper. At least she's a fun person. I'll see you later."

Steve has to hold in a laugh, "Don't be like that, Tony. I'll see you soon. I just want to say hi."

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Tony muttered, already pulling out his phone. Of course it was the newest and most expensive looking phone Steve has ever laid eyes on. Tony was already dialing up Pepper's contact page as he exited the classroom without looking back once.

Steve sighed. Tony was such a basket case. He would get over it.

With that decision, Steve let himself approach the desk at the front of the classroom. It was now that he was close that Steve realized yet another reason Peter Parker was a very unorthodox teacher. He was sitting with his legs crossed, like a kindergartner on a colored rug, in his very professional business chair.

At his approach, Peter Parker looked up from his phone, "Hi," he said, smiling, "What's your name?"

"I'm Steve," he replied. He held out his hand for the counselor to shake. He was brought up on manners and he continued to use them to this day. Parker… Now, Parker certainly _wasn't _brought up on manners.

When Steve stuck out his hand, Peter dapped him back. Totally unprofessionally and completely out of the blue, Peter Parker dapped Steve. And that made him laugh.

"Nice to meet you, Steve," Peter said, "You can sit down if you want."

"Oh, that won't really be necessary. I just wanted to say hi."

"No you didn't."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And Peter had confidence so great as he said it that it caught Steve off guard.

"Um," Steve stammered, "I don't really know what-"

"You wanted to talk about something else. Something more important maybe?"

Steve blinked.

"It's okay, dude. I'm all ears," Peter said, smiling.

"Oh," Steve was starting to forget that this guy was supposed to be a mental health and eating disorder counselor. He was more like the popular guy in high school who became popular because of his good personality. He felt trustworthy. Steve continued, "I guess I was just wondering if you- How do I word this? If you once had an eating disorder yourself."

He was not at all offended by the question. If he was, he didn't show it.

"Not me," he said, placing a hand against his chest, "My Aunt May, may she rest in peace. I wouldn't say her death inspired me to do this, per say, but I mean it certainly encouraged my interest in the mental health career field. I mean, I've always sorta been interested. I know, I'm a little weird. But I don't know, she still just _resonates_ with me to this day."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Steve said, and he meant it.

"Thank you," Peter said; he meant it, too, "Do you have any aunts?"

"No. Just my mama."

"No dad?"

"No."

"Me neither."

They shared a beat. Steve started smiling, too.

But then Peter asked, "Next time your mom comes to visit, you'll have to bring her in so I can meet her."

"Oh," Steve's smile faded almost instantly, "I don't- I mean, um. She doesn't- She can't visit."

"Why not?"

"I didn't give her permission on the release form."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to see her."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Why not?"

Peter was smiling instantly. He was acting less his age and more like an insistent four-year-old.

"I just don't want to see her!"

"Why not? You have to talk it out, Steve."

"Why do I _have to _do anything? I just don't want to see her."

"Because…" Peter prompted.

"Because she was the one who put me here!"

"There you go. Now, how does that make you feel?"

"Betrayed."

"Why 'betrayed?' Not 'angry?' Not 'sad?'" Peter aked, thin eyebrows raised. It almost looked like he was wearing makeup. He repeated, "Why 'betrayed?'"

"I don't know. Just betrayed."

"There are so many words in the English language," Peter said, "Personally, my super favorite word is 'bookkeeper,' because it's the only word in the English language that has three consecitive sets of repeating letters. But forget that tangent. I'm trying to say you had virtually infinite options of describing how she made you feel. Why did you say she made you feel betrayed?"

"I don't know, she just… This is gonna sound stupid."

"I don't think so. You seem like a smart guy."

"Not compared to Tony," Steve answered honestly. He was one for being verbally humble, certainly, but he wasn't usually one for bringing verbal attention to his self-hatred. He let the teenage girl basket cases have that. But for some reason it felt relieving to confess that out loud to Peter. He acknowledged this, and went on, "Anyway, I'm trying to say- My mama always tried to show me she loves me. I don't know if it's because I don't have a dad… I don't know. But she loves me a lot, I know she does, and I'm glad she does. You know. We live in a tough neighbourhood. It's just great to have her. But then she sent me here, without even telling me, without even asking me how I felt, never even talking to me about my body image, or my eating disorder, or anything at all. It was just so unexpected."

"Do you think she maybe sent you here _because_ she loves you? To cure your anorexia?"

Steve's throat closed up.

"I don't have anorexia," he snapped a little too loudly.

Peter's big brown eyes were wide and understanding. He nodded, "Okay."

This caught Steve off guard, "You… You believe me?"

"Sure. I don't see why you would lie to me."

Either this was some sort of reverse psychology, or Peter actually believed him. Steve hoped for the latter, but he believed the former.

"I don't have anorexia," he reiterated, a little more fiercely, "I have a medical condition. I can't digest food properly. My body doesn't absorb nutrients. I'm taking medication to help."

"Okay," Peter said, "Do you like your medication?"

It was a weird question. Steve didn't mind. Even with Peter's reverse psychology trick going, Steve felt like he could trust him.

"A little."

"But not entirely."

"No."

"Why?"

"It makes me sleepy."

"And you don't like feeling sleepy?"

"Not like this."

Peter nodded. He took out a red and blue fidget spinner from a drawer in his desk and spun it between his fingers as he continued talking to Steve, "Can I go back to something you said a bit earlier?"

"I guess?"

"You don't have anorexia."

"No."

"But you do have an eating disorder."

"What makes you say that?"

Peter was balancing the spinning device on the top of his thumb as it whirled around, "You said it yourself," he said nonchalantly, but with that sort of friendly tone, "You said your mom never talked to you about your body image or your eating disorder."

Steve felt something drop into his stomach, something heavy and cold. He was a little dizzy when he admitted, "Yeah. I said that."

"Wanna sit down?"

"Yes, please."

Steve sat down at the chair on the other side of Peter's desk. Now that he was sitting he was starting to see a little more clearly, but he still felt just as dazed. Peter finally took his attention away from the fidget spinner and gave it to Steve, smiling.

"You're so polite," Peter said, "Saying 'yes, please' like that."

"My mama raised me well."

"I'm sure she did. Do you want to talk about your eating disorder, Steve?"

Steve exhaled. He could do this. Yes he could.

"I, um," he started. He avoided eye contact so he could focus on what he needed to get out of his system, "I didn't realize. That it was an eating disorder, I mean. Not until I came here. See, we're educated on these kinds of things as part of the curriculum. I didn't realize that I was a binge eater. I just.."

Steve was overworking himself, he could tell. He tried for eye contact again, and Peter was looking back at him sweetly and softly, gently prompting Steve to continue. So he did.

"It's just so hard to be so small. Where I come from, you have to be big and tough to survive. You just have to. Being so small, I can't do anything. I'm holding my mama back, my friends back. It's not fair for them. I guess I thought eating would help me get bigger, and it would have if I didn't have cachexia. Cachexia. That's that medical condition I have. I just… I'm sorry, I said too much."

"No, you said just enough," Peter said, nodding, "Thank you. And you should thank yourself."

"Thank myself? What for?"

"Don't you realize what you just did?" Peter asked, smiling bigger than ever. The expression on his face made him look like a little kid with a bright red balloon, "You finally started your first steps to recovery."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand?"

"You figured out why you're sick, Steve! You opened up about an eating disorder! And you figured out where it originated from. That's the hardest part, Steve. You're in the clear now."

"So I'm going to get better?"

"Well, no," Peter faltered, "On average, it takes about seven years to recover from an eating disorder."

"_Seven years?"_

"But I have faith in you! You single handedly discovered the origin of the disorder and you're already taking note of how it's affecting you. You're in a remarkable facility with caring teachers and students just like you. You're going to get better, Steve," Peter had tears in his eyes. He didn't look like he was about to cry, but his eyes were glossy with obvious tears. He looked so proud.

That's astonishing, considering they just met. Not only that, but Peter managed to give Steve a counseling session without him even realizing it. Who would have thought? With months worth of therapy, restrictive diets, counselors, doctors, etc. that the one thing Steve actually needed to recover was a kid his age who was willing to listen?

Things were starting to look up.

"Thank you, Peter."

"Anything for you, Steve," Peter laughed, "Oh my God, this is great. I just met you but I feel like I've known you for years. I can't wait to work with you this summer."

"Me too," he meant it.

Peter reopened his desk drawer to return the fidget spinner to its original abode, speaking as he did so, "Out of curiosity. Where are you from? Doesn't sound like a very healthy place."

"Bad side of Brooklyn."

Peter blinked, "Brooklyn?"

"Yeah."

"I'm from Queens."

They shared another beat, one even more powerful than the last one.

"Thank you," Steve said, rising from his chair.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to call my mama. We have a lot to talk about."


End file.
